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ri  UIDE  TO  THE  STAGE : a New 

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THE 


IKON  CHEST. 


a f las. 


MUSIC  and  TL  , S 


THREE  ACTS.  §7  KINGS!  IV 


; GEOEGE  COL  MAN, 

THE  YOUNGER, 

Author  of  Jolm  ^‘‘  Poor  Gentleman f Heir- at- Law, 

\ **  Surrender  of  Calais^  “ Beviewp  Ac.,  Ac, 


WITH  THE  PREFACE. 


liONDON  : 

/ SAMUEL  FRENCH, 

I PUBLISHER, 

1 8 9 , STRAND. 


New  Yoek  : 

SAMUEL  FRENCH  & SON, 

rUBI.ISHERS, 

122,  NASSAU  STREET. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION,  1796  * / 


Having  been,  for  some  time,  a labourer  in  the  Drama,  and  finding 
it  necessary  to  continue  my  labours,  I cannot  help  endeavouriniig 
to  guard  the  past  from  misrepresentation,  lest  my  supineness  maj,y 
injure  the  future.  Conscious  that  a prejudice  has  been  raised  again^st 
the  Play  which  I now  submit  to  the  Reader,  and  conscious  how  ftir 
I am  innocent  of  raising  it,  it  were  stupid  to  sit  down  in  silencie, 
and  thus  tacitly  acknowledge  myself  guilty  of  dulness; — dumbly 
confess  I have  been  deficient  in  the  knowledge  of  my  trade,  dar  i 
myself  for  a bungling  workman,  and  fix  a disrepute  upon  every 
article  which  may,  hereafter,  coinc  from  my  hands. 

Thanks  to  you,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  ! you  have  been  kind 
customers  to  me ; and  I am  proud  to  say  that  you  have  stanipod  a 
fashion  upon  my  goods.  Base,  indeed,  and  ungrateful  were  th«3 
attempt,  after  your  favours,  so  long  received  and  continued,  to  im 
pose  upon  you  a clumsy  commodity,  and  boast  it  to  be  ware  of  tlic^ 
first  quality  that  I ever  put  up  to  sale ! No— on  the  word  of  an 
honest  man,  I have  bestowed  no  small  pains  upon  this  Iron  Chesty 
which  I offer  you.  Inspect  it ; examine  it ; you  see  the  maker’§ 
name  is  upon  it.  I do  not  say  it  is  perfect ; I do  not  pretend  to  tel] 
you  it  is  of  the  highest  polish ; there  is  no  occasion  for  that ; — man  y 
of  my  brethren  have  presented  you  with  mere  linings  for  chests,  nr': 
you  have  been  content  :~but,  I trust,  you  will  find  that  my  Iron 
Chest  will  hold  together,  that  it  is  tolerably  sound,  and  fit  for  all 
the  purposes  for  which  it  was  intended. 

Then  how  came  it  to  fall  to  pieces,  after  four  days  wear  ? — I will 
explain  that : — but  alas  ! alas  ! my  heart  doth  yearn,  when  I think 
on  the  task  which  circumstance  has  thrust  upon  me. 

Now,  by  the  Spirit  of  Peace,  I swear ! were  I not  still  doomed  to 
explore  the  rugged  windings  of  the  Drama,  I would  wrap  myself 
in  mute  philosophy,  and  repose  calmly  under  the  dark  shade  of  m\' 
grievance,  rather  than  endure  the  pain,  and  trouble,  of  this  exphiii  - 
ation.  I cannot,  however,  cry  “Let  the  world  slide;’’  I must 
pursue  my  journey ; and  be  active  to  clear  away  the  obstacles  that 
impede  my  progress. 

I am  too  callous,  now,  to  be  annoyed  by  those  innumerable  gnats 
and  insects,  who  daily  dart  their  impotent  stings  on  the  literary 
traveller;  and  too  knowing  to  dismount,  and  waste  my  time  in 


Tins  I’vofacc,  so  celebrated,  and  so  difficult  to  obtain,  is  here  rcpvinti'ii.  as 
an  illustration  of  i)lain  speaking,  not  altogether  undeserved.  .Mr.  Kfiiibio 
vliould  liave  acted  Sir  Edward  well;  it  is  clear  from  all  testimony  that  lit  did  not. 


^ ^ ^ 


PREFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


3 


whipping  grasshoppers  : — but  here  is  a scowling,  sullen,  black  Bull, 
right  athwart  niy  road;— a monster  of  magnitude,  of  the  Boeotian 
breed,  perplexing  me  in  my  wanderings  through  the  entangled 
labyrinth  of  Drury  I he  stands  sulkily  before,  with  sides,  seemingly, 
impenetrable  to  any  lash,  and  tougher  than  the  Dun  Cow  of  War 
wick! — His  front  out-fronting  the  brazen  bull  of  Perillus  ! — He 
has  bellowed.  Gentlemen ! Yea,  he  hath  bellowed  a dismal  sound  ! 
A hollow,  unvaried  tone,  heaved  from  his  very  midriff,  and  striking 
the  listener  with  torpor  ! — Would  I could  pass  the  animal  quietly, 
for  my  own  sake — and,  for  his,  by  Jupiter  ! I repeat  it,  I would  not 
willingly  harm  the  Bull. — I delight  not  in  baiting  him. — I would 
jog  as  gently  by  him  as  by  the  ass,  that  grazes  on  the  common : 
but  he  has  obstinately  blocked  up  my  way — he  has  already  tossed 
and  gored  me,  severely — I must  make  an  effort,  or  he  batters  me 
down,  and  leaves  me  to  bite  the  dust. 

The  weapon  1 must  use  is  not  of  that  brilliant  and  keen  quality, 
which,  in  a skilful  hand,  neatly  cuts  up  the  subject,  to  the  delight, 
and  admiration,  of  the  by-standers : It  is  a homely  cudgel  of 
Narrative  ; a blunt  baton  of  Matter  of  fact ; affording  little  display 
of  art  in  the  wielder ; and  so  heavy  in  its  nature,  that  it  can 
merely  claim  the  merit  of  being  appropriate  to  the  opponent  at 
whom  it  is  levelled. 

Pray,  stand  clear ! — for  I shall  handle  this  club  vilely : and  if 
any  one  come  in  my  way,  he  may  chance  to  get  a rap,  which  I 
did  not  intend  to  bestow  upon  him.  Good  venal  and  venemous 
gentlemen,  who  dabble  in  ink  for  pay  or  from  pique,  and  who  have 
dub’d  yourselves  Critichs^  keep  your  distance  now  ! Run  home  to 
your  garrets  ! — Fools!  ye  are  but  at  best ; and  will  die 

soon  enough,  in  the  paltry  course  of  your  insignificant  natures, 
without  thrusting  your  ears  (if  there  be  any  left  you)  into  the  heat 
^ of  this  perilous  action. — Avaunt ! — well,  well,  stay  if  ye  are  bent 
^ upon  it,  and  be  pert  and  busy ; your  folly,  to  me,  is  of  no  moment.*^ 

I hasten  now  to  my  Narrative. 

I agreed  to  write  the  following  Play,  at  the  instance  of  the  chief 
Proprietor  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  ;t  who  unconditionally,  agreed  to 
pay  me  a certain  sum  for  my  labour ; — and  this  certain  sum,  being 
much  larger  than  any,  I believe,  hitherto  offered  on  similar 
occasions,  created  no  small  jealousy  among  the  Parnassian  Sans 
Culottes ; several  of  whom  have,  of  late,  been  vapidly  industrious 
to  level,  to  the  muddy  surface  of  their  own  Castalian  ditch, 
so  Aristocratico- Dramatic  a bargainer.  The  Play,  as  fast  as 
written,  (piecemeal)  was  put  into  rehearsal : But  let  it  here  be 
noted,  gentle  reader!  that  a rehearsal,  in  Drury  Lane,  (I  mean  as 
far  as  relates  to  this  Iron  Chest)  is  Incus  a non  lucendo.  They 
yclep  it  a rehearsal,  I conjecture,  because  they  do  not  rehearse.  I 


« Ye  who  impartially,  and  conscientiously,  sit  in  diurnal  judgment  upon 
modern  dramatists,  apply  not  this  to  yourselves.  It  aims  only  at  the  malevolent, 
the  mean,  and  the  ignorant,  who  are  the  disgrace  of  your  order, 
t Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. — T.  H,  L. 


4 


PKEFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


call  the  loved  shade  of  Garrick  to  witness ; nay,  I call  the  less^ 
loved  presence  of  the  then  acting  Manager  to  avow, — that  ther& 
never  was  one  fair  rehearsal  of  the  Play. — Never  one  rehearsal, 
wherein  one,  or  two,  or  more,  of  the  Performers,  very  essential  to 
the  piece,  were  not  absent:  and  all  the  rehearsals  which  I 
attended,  so  slovenly,  and  irregular,  that  the  ragged  master  of  a 
theatrical  barn  might  have  blushed  for  the  want  of  discipline  in 
the  pompous  Director  of  his  Majesty’s  Servants,  at  the  vast  and 
astonishing  new- erected  Theatre  Royal,  in  Drury  Lane. 

It  is  well  known,  to  those  conversant  with  the  business  of  the- 
stage,  that  no  perfect  judgment  can  be  formed  of  the  length  of  a 
Play,  apparent  to  the  spectator,  nor  of  the  general  effect  intended  to 
be  produced,  until  the  private  repetitions,  among  the  actors,  have 
reduced  the  business  into  something  like  lucidus  ordo  : — then  comes 
the  time  for  the  judicious  author  to  take  up  his  pruning-knife,  or 
handle  his  hatchet.  Then  he  goes  lustily  to  work,  my  masters  ! 
upon  his  curtailments,  or  additions ; his  transpositions,  his 
loppings,  his  parings,  trimmings,  dockings,  &c.  &c.  As  in  the 
writing,  so  in  the  rehearsal. 

“ Ordinis  hsec  virtus  erit  et  venus,  aut  ego  fallor 
“ Ut  jam  nunc  dicat,  jam  nunc  debentia  dici” 

“ Pleraque  differat,  et  praesens  in  tempus  omittat 
Hoc  amet,  hoc  spernat,  promissi  carminis  Auctor.** 

But,  woe  is  me  ! while  I was  patiently  waiting  the  expected 
crisis,  a circumstance  occurr’d  which  compell’d  me  to  watch  a 
crisis  of  a less  agreeable  nature.  A fever  attack’d  me,  as  I sat 
beneath  the  damp  dome  of  Drury,  and  drove  me,  malgre  moi^  ta 
bed;  where  I lay  during  a week,  till  three  hours  before  the  Play 
was  exhibited.  In  addition  to  the  unavoidable  injury  arising  from 
the  author’s  absence,  Mr.  Kemble,  the  acting- manager,  and  prin- 
cipal performer  in  the  piece,  was,  and  had  been  for  a few  days, 
previous  to  my  own  illness,  confined  to  his  chamber,  by  indis- 
position. I lay  little  stress,  indeed,  upon  his  temporary  incapacity 
to  perform  his  managerical  duty ; his  mode  of  discharging  it, 
hitherto,  was  productive  of  little  benefit  to  me ; — Still  it  was  some 
drawback — for  were  a mere  Log  thrown  amidst  a Thespian  com- 
munity, and  nominated  its  dull  and  ponderous  Ruler,  still  the 
block,  while  in  its  place,  would  carry  some  sway  with: — but  his- 
non-attendance  as  an  actor,  so  much  engaged  in  the  Play,  was 
particularly  detrimental. 

Nay,  even  the  Composer  of  the  music — and  here  let  me  breathe 
a sigh,  to  the  memory  of  departed  worth  and  genius,  as  I write  the 
name  of  Storage* — even  he,  could  not  preside  in  his  department. 
He  was  preparing  an  early  flight  to  that  abode  of  harmony,  where 
choirs  of  Angels  swell  the  note  of  welcome  to  an  honest  and 
congenial  spirit. 

Here  then  was  a direct  stop  to  the  business  ? No  such  thing.. 


• The  whole  of  the  beautiful  concerted  music  is  now  omitted.— T.  H.  L. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


5 


The  Troops  proceeded  without  leaders  : in  the  dark,  Messieurs  ! — 
“ JSans  eyes,  Sans  every  thing.”  The  Prompter,  it  is  true,  a kind  of 
non-commissioned  officer,  headed  the  Corps,  and  a curious  march 
was  made  of  it ! 

But  lo ! two  days,  or  three,  (I  forget  whieh)  previous  to  the 
public  representation,  up  rose  King  Kemble!  like  Somnus  from 
his  ebon  bed,  to  distribute  his  dozing  directions  among  his 
subjects. 

Tard^  gravitate  jacentes” 

‘‘  Vix  oculos  tollens;” 

**  Summaque  percutiens  nutanti  pectora  mento,” 

“ Excussit,  tandem,  sibi  se ; cubitoque  Jevatus,’’  &c. 

He  came,  saw,  and  pronounced  the  Piece  to  be  ripe  for  exhibition. 
It  was  ordered  to  be  performed  immediately.  News  was  brought  to 
me,  in  my  sickness,  of  the  mighty  J^iat ; and,  althougli  I was  told, 
officially,  that  due  care  had  been  taken  to  render  it  worthy  of 
public  attention,  I submitted  with  doubt  and  trembling  to  the 
decree.  My  doubts,  too,  of  this  boasted  care  were  not  a little 
increased  by  a note,  which  I received  from  the  Prompter,  written 
by  the  Manager’s  order,  three  hours  only,  before  the  first  repre- 
sentation of  the  Play : — wherein,  atr  this  late  period,  my  consent 
was,  abruptly,  requested  to  a transposition  of  two  of  the  most 
material  scenes  in  the  second  act : and  the  reason  given  for  this 
curious  proposal  was,  that  the  present  stage  of  Drury — where  the 
Architect  and  Machinist,  with  the  judgment  and  ingenuity  of  a 
Politician  and  a Wit  to  assist  them,  had  combined  to  outdo  all 
former  theatrieal  outdoings — was  so  bunglingly  constructed,  that 
there  was  not  time  for  the  carpenters  to  place  the  lumbering 
frame  work,  on  which  an  Abbey  was  painted,  behind  the  re- 
presentation of  a Library,  without  leaving  a chasm  of  ten  minutes 
in  the  action  of  the  Play ; and  that  in  the  middle  of  an  act. — 
Such  was  the  fabrication  of  that  New  Stage,  whose  “ exte7it  and 
powers"  have  been  so  vauntingly  advertised,  under  the  classick 
management  of  Mr.  Kemble,  in  the  edifying  exhibition  of  Panto- 
mimes, Processions,  Pageants,  Triumphal  Cars,  Milk-white  Horses, 
and  Elephants ! 

As  I did  not  chuse  to  alter  the  construction  of  my  Play,  without 
deliberation,  merely  to  sereen  the  ill-construction  of  the  House,  I 
would  not  listen  to  the  modest,  and  well-timed  demand,  of  turning 
the  progress  of  my  fable  topsy  turvey. 

Very  ill,  and  very  weak,  from  the  effects  of  the  fever,  whieh  had 
not  yet  left  me,  I made  an  effort,  and  went  to  the  Theatre,  to 
witness  the  performance.  I found  Mr.  Kemble,  in  his  dressing 
room,  a short  time  before  the  curtain  was  drawn  up,  taking  Opium 
Pills:  and,  nobody  who  is  acquainted  with  that  gentleman  will 
doubt  me  when  I assert,  that  they  are  a medicine  which  he  has 
long  been  in  the  habit  of  swallowing.  He  appeared  to  be  very 
unwell ; and  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  imbibed, 

“ Poppy  and  Mandragora,” 

“ And  all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world.’’ 


6 


PEEFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


The  Play  began;  and  all  went  smoothly,  till  a trifling  disappro- 
bation was  shewn  to  the  character  personated  by  Mr.  Dodd  ; 

the  scene  in  which  he  was  engaged  being  much  too  long.  A proof 
of  the  neglect  of  those  whose  business  it  was  to  have  informed 
me  (in  my  unavoidable  absence  from  the  Theatre)  that  it  appeared 
in  the  last  rehearsals.,  to  want  curtailment.  I considered  this, 
however,  to  be  of  no  great  moment;  for  Mr.  Kemble  was  to  appear 
immediately  in  a subsequent  scene,  and  much  was  expected  from 
his  execution  of  a part,  written  expressly  for  his  powers. 

And,  here,  let  me  describe  the  requisites  for  the  character 
which  I have  attempted  to  draw,  that  the  world  may  judge 
whether  I have  taken  a wrong  measure  of  the  personage  whom  I 
proposed  to  fit ; premising  that  I have  worked  for  him  before  with 
success,  and,  therefore,  it  may  be  presumed  that  I am  somewhat 

acquainted  with  the  dimensions  of  his  qualifications 1 required, 

then,  a man 

“ Of  a tall  stature,  and  of  sable  hue,” 

“ Much  like  the  son  of  Kish,  that  lofty  Jew,’* 

A man  of  whom  it  might  be  said, 

“ There’s  something  in  his  soul” 

“ O’er  which  his  melancholy  sits  and  broods.” 

Look  at  the  actor; — and  will  any  body  do  him  the  injustice  to 
declare  that  he  is  deficient  in  these  qualifications.  It  would 
puzzle  any  author,  in  any  time  or  country,  from  -dEschylus  down, 
even,  to  the  Translator  of  Lodoisha"^ — and  really,  gentlemen,  I can 
go  no  lower — to  find  a figure  and  face  better  suited  to  the  purpose. 
I have  endeavoured  moreover,  to  pourtray  Sir  Edward  Mortimer 
as  a man  stately  in  his  deportment,  reserved  in  his  temper,  myste- 
rious, cold,  and  impenetrable,  in  his  manner : and  the  candid 
observers,  I trust,  will  allow  that  Mr.  Kemble  is  thoroughly 
adequate  to  such  a personation. 

To  complete  my  requisitions,  I demanded  a performer  who  could 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  a character  proceeding  upon  romantick, 
half-witted  principles,  abstracted  in  his  opinions,  sophisticated  in 
his  reasonings,  and  who  is  thrown  into  situations  where  his  mind 
and  conduct  stand,  tiptoe,  on  the  extremest  verge  of  probability. 
Here,  surely,  I have  not  mistaken  my  man ; for  if  1 am  able  to 
form  any  opinion  of  him,  as  an  Actor, — and  my  opinion,  I know, 
is  far  from  singular, — his  chief  excellence  almost  approaches  that 
style  which  the  learned  denominate  caricature.  Possibility  on  the 
stretch,  passion  over-leaping  its  customary  bound,  movements  of 
the  soul,  sullen  or  violent,  very  rarely  seen  in  the  common  course 
of  things,  yet  still  may  be  seen — in  these  is  his  element.  As  our 
language  is  said  to  have  sunk  under  the  vast  conception  of  Miltojt, 
so  does  the  modesty  of  Nature  suffer  a depression  beneath  the 
unwieldy  imaginings  of  Mr.  Kemble.  He  seldom  deigns  to 
accompany  the  Goddess  in  her  ordinary  walks;  when  she  decently 


• J.  P.  Kemble  himself. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


7 


paces  the  regular  path,  with  a sober  step,  and  a straight  person : 
hut  he  kindly  assists  her  when  she  is,  doubtless,  in  need  of  assist- 
ance— when  she  appears  out  of  her  way,  crazy  and  crooked. 

The  arrogant  fault  of  being  more  refined  than  Refinement,  more 
proper  than  Propriety,  more  sensible  than  Sense,  which,  nine  times 
in  ten  will  disgust  the  spectator,  becomes  frequently  an  advantage 
to  him,  in  characters  of  the  above  description. 

In  short,  Mr.  Kemble  is  a paragon-representative  of  the  Lusus 
Naturce:  and  were  Mr.  Kemble  sewed  up  in  a skin,  to  act  a hog 
in  a pantomime,  he  would  act  a hog  with  six  legs  better  than  a 
hog  with  four. 

If  any  one  ask  why  I chose  to  sketch  a Lusus- Naturce,  when  it 
might  better  become  an  author  to  be  chaste  in  his  delineation,  I 
can  only  reply,  that  I did  so  to  obtain  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Kemble 
in  his  best  manner ; and  that  now  I do  most  heartily  repent  me : 
for  never,  sure,  did  man  place  the  main  strength  of  his  building 
upon  so  rotten  a prop  ! 

Well,  the  great  actor  was  discovered,  as  Sir  Edward  Mortimer ^ 
in  his  library.  Gloom  and  desolation  sat  upon  his  brow ; and  he 
was  habited,  from  the  wig  to  the  shoe-string,  with  the  most  studied 
exactness.  Had  one  of  King  Charles  the  First’s  portraits  walked 
from  the  frame,  upon  the  boards  ot  the  Theatre,  it  could  not  have 
afforded  a truer  representation  of  ancient  and  melancholy  dignity. 

The  picture  could  not  have  looked  better — but,  in  justice  to  the 
picture,  it  must  also  be  added,  that,  the  picture  could  scarcely  have 
acted  worse. 

The  spectators,  who  gaped  with  expectation  at  his  first  appear- 
ance, yawned  with  lassitude  before  his  first  exit.  It  seemed, 
however,  that  illness  had  totally  incapacitated  him  from  performing 
the  business  he  had  undertaken.  For  his  mere  illness  he  was 
entitled  to  pity;  for  his  COTiduct  under  it,  he,  undoubtedly,  deserved 
censure. 

How  can  Mr.  Kemble,  as  a Manager,  and  an  Actor,  justify  his 
thrusting  himself  forward  in  a new  play,  the  material  interest  of 
which  rested  upon  his  own  powers,  at  a moment  when  he  must  be 
conscious  that  he  had  no  powers  at  all  ? — Mr.  Kemble  owes  a duty 
to  the  public,  to  his  employer,  and  to  an  author  writing  for  his 
employer’s  house.  How  does  he  treat  the  claimants  upon  his 
service,  in  this  instance?  Exactly  thus — he  insults  the  under- 
standing of  the  first,  and  injures  the  interests  of  the  two  last,  by 
calling  in  a crowd  to  an  entertainment  which  he  knows  he  must 
mar. 

I requested  him,  at  the  end  of  the  first  act,  to  order  an  apology 
to  be  made  for  his  indisposition,  lest  the  uninformed,  or  malicious, 
might  attribute  the  ponderosity  of  the  performer  to  the  heaviness 
of  the  author.  I was  anxious  to  disavow  all  right  and  title  to 
those  pigs  of  lead  which  did  not  belong  to  me,  and  of  which  Mr. 
Kemble  was  the  just  proprietor.  But  no — he  peremptorily 
declared  he  would  not  suffer  an  apology  to  be  made  ! It  should 
have  been  made  (if  at  all)  before  the  Play  began. — Then  why  was 
it  not  made  ? — He  did  not,  then,  imagine  that  illness  would  have 


8 


PREFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST, 


disabled  him. — So,  then,  a man  quits  his  chamber,  after  an  attack 
which  has,  evidently,  weakened  him  extremely,  and  he  has  no 
bodily  feel,  no  internal  monitor,  to  whisper  to  him  that  he  is  feeble, 
and  that  he  has  not  recovered  sufficient  strength  to  make  a violent 
exertion ! This  mode  of  reasoning,  adopted  by  Mr.  Kemble,  is 
much  in  the  spirit  of  that  clown’s,  who  did  not  know  whether  he 
could  play  on  a fiddle  till  he  tried.  Be  it  noted,  also,  that  Mr. 
Kemble  was  swallowing  his  opium  pills,  before  the  play  began, 
"because  he  was  ill: — but  opium  causes  strange  oblivious  effects; 
and  these  pills  must  have  occasioned  so  sudden  a lapse  in  Mr. 
Kemblr’s  memory,  that  he  forgot  when  he  took  them, .why  he  took 
them,  or  that  he  had  taken  them  at  all.  The  dose  must  have  been 
very  powerful.  Still,  for  the  reasons  already  stated,  T pressed  for 
an  apology ; still  Mr.  Kemble  continued  obstinate  in  opposing  it. 
His  indisposition,  he  said,  was  evident;  he  had  coughed  very 
much  upon  the  stage,  and  an  apology  would  make  him  “ look  like 
a fool,” 

Good-nature  in  excess  becomes  weakness;  but  I never  yet 
found,  in  the  confined  course  of  my  reading,  that  good  nature  and 
folly  would  bear  the  same  definition : Mr.  Kemble,  it  should  seem 
(and  he  produced,  at  least,  managerical  authority  for  it)  considered 
the  terms  to  be  synonimous.  Freely,  however,  forgiving  him  for 
biis  unkindness  in  refusing  to  gratify  a poor  devil  of  an  author, — 
who,  very  anxious  for  his  reputation,  was  very  moderate  in  his 
request  —I  do,  in  all  Christian  charity,  most  sincerely  wish  that 
Mr.  Kemble  may  never  find  greater  cause  to  look  like  a fool  than 
an  apology  for  his  indisposition. 

At  length,  by  dint  of  perseverance,  I gained  my  point.  A 
.proprietor  of  the  Theatre  was  called  in  upon  the  occasion,  whose 
mediation  in  my  favour  carried  more  weight  with  the  Acting 
Manager  than  a hapless  Dramatist’s  entreaty ; and  the  apology 
was,  in  due  form,  delivered  to  the  audience. 

One  third  of  the  play,  only,  was  yet  performed ; and  I was,  now, 
to  make  up  my  mind,  like  an  unfortunate  traveller,  to  pursue  my 
painful  journey,  through  two  stages  more,  upon  a broken-down 
Poster,  on  whose  back  lay  all  the  baggage  for  my  expedition. 
Miserably,  and  most  heavily  in  hand,  did  the  Poster  proceed  ! — He 
groaned,  he  lagged,  he  coughed,  he  winced,  he  wheezed  ! — Never 
was  seen  so  sorry  a jade ! The  audience  grew  completely  soured ; 
and,  once  completely  soured,  every  thing,  naturally,  went  wrong. 
They  recurred  to  their  disapprobation  of  poor  Dodd — and  observe 
what  this  produced.  I must  relate  it. 

Mr.  Kemble  had  just  plodded  through  a scene,  regardless  of  those 
loud  and  manifest  tokens,  that  the  Critics  delighted  not  in  the 
“ drowsy  hums”  with  which  he  “ rang  nigliVs  yawning  peal  f when 
Dodd  appeared  to  him  on  the  Stage ; at  whose  entrance  the  clamour 
was  renewed.  Then,  and  not  tiU  then,  did  the  Acting  Manager, 
who  had  been  deaf  as  any  post  to  the  supplications  of  the  author 
for  an  apology — then,  did  he  appear  suddenly  seized  with  a fit  of 
good  nature.  He  voluntaiily  came  forward  “ to  look  like  a fool”  and 
beg  the  indulgence  of  the  town.  He  feared  he  was  the  unhappy 


PEEFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


9 


cause  of  their  disapprobation ; he  entreated  their  patience ; and 
hoped  he  should,  shortly,  gain  strength,  to  enable  them  to  judge, 
on  a future  night,  what  he  handsomely  termed  the  merits  of  the 
Play.  Here  was  friendship ! Plere  was  adroitness ! While  the 
Public  were  testifying  their  disgust  at  the  Piece,  through  the 
medium  of  poor  Dodd,  Mr.  Kemble,  with  unexampled  generosity, 
took  the  whole  blame  upon  his  own  shoulders,  and  heroically  saved 
the  author,  by  so  timely  an  interposition.  I was  charmed  with 
this  master-stroke,  and  at  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  I thanked 
him.  But,  alas ! how  narrow  is  the  soul  of  man  ! how  distrustful 
in  its  movements,  how  scanty  in  its  acknowledgements,  how 
perplexing  to  itself  in  its  combinations ! Had  1,  afterwards, 
looked  on  the  thing  simply,  and  nakedly,  by  itself,  why  the  thing 
is  a good-natured  thing:  but  I must  be  putting  other  circumstances- 
by  the  side  of  it,  with  a plague  to  me  ! I must  be  puzzling  myself 
to  see  if  all  fits  ; if  all  is  of  a piece.  And  what  is  the  result  ? — 
Miserable  that  I am ! I have  lost  the  pleasure  of  evincing  a 
gratitude,  which  I thought  I owed,  because  I no  longer  feel  myself 
a debtor.  Had  I abandoned  my  mind  to  that  placid  negligence, 
that  luxurious  confidence,  which  the  inconsiderate  enjoy,  it  had 
never  occurred  to  me  that  Mr.  Kemble,  forseeing,  perhaps,  that  an 
aggrieved  author  might  not  be  totally  silent — step’d  forward  with 
this  speech  to  the  public,  as  a kind  of  salvo,  (should  a statement 
be  made)  for  his  rigidity  in  the  first  instance.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  me  that  Mr.  Kemble  was  sufficiently  hissed,  yawned  at, 
laughed  at,  and  coughed  down,  to  have  made  his  apology  before 
Mr.  Dodd  appeared : It  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  his  making 
his  apology  at  a previous  moment  would  have  answered  the  same 
purpose  to  me,  and  not  to  him : It  had  never  occurred,  in  short, 
that  there  is  such  a thing  as  ostentatious  humility,  and  a politic 
act  of  kindness ; and  that  I should  have  waited  the  sequel  of  a 
man’s  conduct,  before  1 thanked  him  for  one  instance  of  seeming 
good-will,  close  upon  the  heels  of  stubborn  ill-nature,  and  in  the 
midst  of  existing,  and  palpable  injury.  The  sequel  will  shew  that 
I was  premature  in  my  acknowledgment — but  before  I come  to  the 
sequel,  a word  or  two  (I  will  be  brief)  to  close  my  account  of  this, 
first  night’s  eventful  history.  The  Piece  was  concluded,  and  given 
out,  for  a second  performance,  with  much  opposition. 

Friends,  who  never  heard  the  Play  read,  shook  their  heads; 
Friends,  who  had  heard  it  read,  scarcely  knew  it  again  : Several, 
I doubt  not,  .of  the  impartial,  who  chose  to  be  active,  actively  con- 
demned; and  enemies,  of  course,  rejoiced  in  an  opportunity  of 
joining  them. 

No  opportunity  could  be  fairer.  The  Play  was,  at  least,  a fuU 
hour  too  long ; and  had  Job  himself  sat  to  hear  it,  he  must  have 
lost  his  patience.  But,  if,  gentle  reader,  thou  possessest  JoVs 
quality,  and  hast  followed  me  thus  far,  in  my  Narrative,  it  will 
appear  to  thee  (for  I doubt  not  thy  retention  and  combination)  that 
I was  unable  to  curtail  it  effectually,  at  the  proper  time — the 
last  rehearsals.  I was,  then,  laid  flat,  my  dear  friend,  as  you 
remember  I have  told  you,  by  a fever.  The  acting  manager 


10 


PREFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


attend  the  last  rehearsals,  and  sufiered  the  piece  to  be  produced^ 
uncut^  to  “drag  its  slow  length  along,”  surcharged  with  all  its 
own  incapacity,  and  all  his  opium. 

How,  then,  do  I stand  indebted,  according  to  the  articles  of  this 
night’s  statement?  I owe  to  Mr.  Kemble, 


For  his  illness Compassion, 

For  his  conduct  under  it Censure, 

For  his  refusing  to  maJce  an  apology  ...  A Smile  ! 

For  his  malcing  an  apology  ......  A Sneer, 

For  his  mismanagement A GiiOAN, 

For  his  acting A Hiss. 


This  account  is  somewhat  like  the  Tavern  bill,  picked  from 
Falstaff’s  pocket,  when  he  is  snorting  behind  the  arras.  There  is 
but  one  halfpennyworth  of  compassion  to  this  intolerable  deal  of 
blame. 

Now  for  the  sequel.^I  have  shewn,  I think  that  Mr.  Kemble, 
in  the  first  instance,  undertook  a duty  which  he  could  not  perform : 
I have  now  to  afiirm,  with  all  the  difficulty  of  proving  a negative 
full  in  my  face,  that  he  afterwards,  made  a mockery  oi  discharging 
a duty  which  he  would  not  perform. 

After  a week’s  interval,  to  give  him  time  to  recruit  his  strength  ; 
and  the  Author  time  to  curtail,  and  alter  the  Play ; (for  the  im- 
pression which  the  Mis-Manager  and  Actor,  had  contrived  to  stamp 
rendered  alteration  necessary)  it  was  a second  time  represented. 

I must,  here,  let  the  uninformed  reader  into  a secret ; — but  I 
must  go  to  Newmarket  to  make  him  understand  me. — No,  Epsom 
will  do  as  well ; and  that  is  nearer  home. — It  often  happens,  at  a 
Race,  that  a known  Horse,  from  whom  good  sport  is  expected, 
disappoints  the  crowd  by  walking  over  the  course. — He  does  not  miss 
an  inch  of  the  ground;  but  affords  not  one  jot  of  diversion,  unless 
some  pleasure  is  received  in  contemplating  his  figure.  Now,  an 
actor  can  do  the  very  same  thing.  He  can  walk  over  his  part : He 
can  miss  no  more  of  his  words  than  the  Horse  does  of  his  way : 
he  can  be  as  dull,  and  as  tedious,  and  as  good-looking  as  the  Horse, 
in  his  progress : — The  only  difference  between  the  two  animals  is, — 
that  the  Horse  brings  in  him  who  bets  upon  him  a gainer ; but  the 
luckless  wight  who  has  a large  stake  depending  upon  the  actor  is, 
decidedly,  certain  to  lose.  There  is  a trick,  too,  that  the  Jockies 
practice,  which  is  called,  I think,  playing  booty.  This  consists  in 
appearing  to  use  their  utmost  endeavour  to  reach  the  winning-post 
first,  when  they  are  already  determined  to  come  in  the  last.  The 
consequence  is,  that  all,  except  the  knowing  ones,  attribute  no  fault 
to  the  jockey,  but  damn  the  Horse  for  a sluggard. — An  actor  can. 
play  booty  if  he  chuses  : — he  can  pretend  to  whip  and  spur,  and  do 
his  best,  when  the  Connoisseur  knows,  all  the  while,  he  is  shirking : 
— but  Sluggard  is  the  unmerited  appellation  given  by  the  majority 
to  the  innocent  Author. 

Mr.  Kemble  chiefly  chose  to  be  Horse,  and  ivalk'd  over  the  ground. 
Every  now  and  then  (but  scai  cely  enough  to  save  appearances)  he 
gave  a slight  touch  of  the  Jockey,  played  booty. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


11 


Whether  the  language  which  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  Sir 
Edward  Mortimer  be  above  mediocrity,  or  below  contempt,  is  not 
to  the  present  purpose  : but  the  words  he  is  made  to  utter  certainly 
convey  a meaning ; and  the  circumstances  of  the  scenes  afford  an 
opportunity  to  the  performer  of  playing  off  his  mimick  emotions, 
his  transitions  of  passion,  his  starts,  and  all  the  trickeries  of  his 
trade.  The  devil  a trick  did  Mr.  Kemble  play  but  a very  scurvy 
one ! His  emotions  and  passions  were  so  rare,  and  so  feeble,  that 
they  season’d  his  general  insipidity,  like  a single  grain  of 
wretched  pepper  thrown  into  the  largest  dose  of  water  gruel  that 
ever  was  administer’d  to  an  invalid.  For  the  most  part,  he  toil’d 
on,  line  after  line,  in  a dull  current  of  undiversified  sound,  which 
stole  upon  the  ear  far  more  drowsily  than  the  distant  murmurings 
of  Lethe  ; with  no  attempt  to  break  the  lulling  stream,  or  check 
its  sleep-inviting  course. 

Frogs  in  a marsh,  flies  in  a bottle,  wind  in  a crevice,  a preaclicr 
in  a field,  the  drone  of  a bagpipe,  all,  all  yielded  to  the  inimitable, 
and  sopv)rific  monotony  of  Mr.  Kemble  ! 

The  very  best  Dramatic  writing,  where  passion  is  express’d, 
if  deliver’d  languidly  by  the  Actor,  will  fail  in  its  intended  effect : 
and  I will  be  bold  enough  to  say  that  were  the  Car.se  in  Kinr/  Lear 
new  to  an  audience,  and  they  heard  it  utter’d,  for  the  first  time,  in 
a croak,  fainter  than  a crow’s  in  a consumption,  it  would  pass 
unnoticed,  or  appear  vapid  to  the  million. 

If  I raise  a critical  clatter  about  my  ears,  by  this  assertion, 
which  some  may  twist  into  a profanation  of  Shakspeare,  1 leave  it 
io  Horace,  who  can  fight  battles  better  than  1,  to  defend  me, 

“ Si  dicentis  erunt  fortunis  absona  dicta,” 

“ Romani  tollent  pedites  equitesque  cachinnum.’* 

That  Mr.  Kemble  did  not  misconceive  the  Part  is  certain  ; for 
he  told  me,  some  time  before  the  Play  was  acted,  that  he  fear’d 
the  exertions  requisite,  in  Sir  Edward  Mortimer^  would  strain  his 
lungs  more  than  Octavian,  in  the  Mountaineers. 

That  he  can  strain  his  lungs  to  good  purpose,  in  Octavian^  is 
well  known ; and,  after  this,  his  own  intimation,  how  will  he 
escape  the  charge  of  wilful  and  direct  delinquency,  when,  with 
such  a conception  of  the  part,  and  with  health  recover’d,  he  came 
forward  in  the  true  spirit  uf  Bottom^  and  “ aggravated  his  voice  so 
that  he  roared  yon  as  ge,nthj  as  any  sucking  dove 

He  insulted  the  Town,  and  injured  his  Employer,  and  the 
Author,  sufficiently  in  the  first  instance  : in  the  second  he  added 
to  the  insult  and  injury  an  hundred  fold:  and  as  often  as  he 
mangled  the  Character  (three  or  four  times,  I am  uncertain  Avhich, 
after  the  first  night’s  performance)  he  heap’d  aggravation  upon 
aggravation. 

The  most  miserable  murmur,  that  ever  disgraced  the  walls  of  a 
Theatre,  could  not  have  been  a stronger  drawback  than  Mr.  Kejible. 

* Mr.  Kemble  informed  me,  previous  to  the  second  representation  of  the 
Flay,  that  he  felt  himself  capable  of  exertion. 


12 


PREFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


He  was  not  only  dull  in  himself  but  the  cause  of  dulness  in  others. 
Like  the  baleful  Upas  of  Java^  his  pestiferous  influence  infected 
all  around  him. — When  two  Actors  came  forward,  to  keep  up  the 
Shuttlecock  of  scenicfiction,  if  one  plays  slovenly  the  otlier 
cannot  maintain  his  game.  Poor  Bannister,  Jun.  would  he  speak 
out  (but  I have  never  press’d  him,  and  never  shall  press  him  to 
say  a word  upon  the  subject)  could  bear  ample  testimony  to  the 
truth  of  this  remark.  He  suffer’d  like  a man  under  the  cruelty  of 
]\lezeutius.  All  alive  himself,  he  was  tied  to  a corpse,  which  he 
was  fated  to  drag  about  with  him,  scene  after  scene,  which  weigh’d 
him  down,  and  depress’d  his  vigour.  Miss  Farren,  too,  who  might 
animate  anything  but  a soul  of  lead,  and  face  of  iron,  experienced 
the  same  fate. 

I could  proceed,  and  argue,  and  reason,  and  discuss,  and  tire  the 
reader,  as  I have  tired  myself  (it  is  now,  my  good  friend,  one  o’clock 
in  the  morning)  to  prove,  further,  that  Mr.  Kemble  was  unsound 

in  my  cause,  and  that  he  ruin’d  my  Play : But  I will  desist 

here.  I think  I have  prosed  enough  to  manifest  that  my  argu- 
ments are  not  unfounded. 

They  who  are  experienced  in  Dramatics^  will,  I trust,  see  that 
I have  made  a fair  extenuation  of  myself — they  who  are  impartial, 
will,  I hope,  be  convinced  that  I have  set  down  nought  in  malice. 

The  only  question  that  may  arise  to  shake,  materially,  the  credit 

of  all  I have  said,  is “ How  is  it  probable  that  Mr.  Kemble 

should  injure  you  thus,  without  provocation?  Is  it  in  nature? 
Is  it  ill  man?’’  I can  merely  answer,  that,  I am  unconscious  of 
having  given  him  a cause  for  provocation ; — that  if  I have  given 
him  cause,  he  has  taken  a bad  mode  of  revenge ; that  Mr.  Kemble’s 
nature  has  frequently  puzzled  me  in  my  observation  upon  it ; and 
that  I think  him  a very  extraordinary  man. 

But  let  him  take  this  with  him,  should  this  crudely  written 
preface  ever  fall  in  his  way.  I have  committed  it  to  currente 
xalamo,  I mean  no  allusion,  no  epithet,  to  apply  to  him  as  a 
private  individual.  As  a private  individual,  I give  him  not  that 

notice  which  it  might,  here,  be  impertinent  to  bestow : -but  I 

have  an  undoubted  right  to  discuss  his  merits,  or  demerits,  in  his 
public  capacities  of  Manager  and  Actor : and  my  cause  of  com- 
plaint gives  me  a good  reason  as  well  as  a right.  His  want  of 
conduct,  his  neglect,  his  injustice,  his  oppression,  his  finesse, 
his  person,  his  face,  are  in  this  point  of  view  all  open  to  my 
animadversion. 

“ He  is  my  goods,  my  chattels 
“ My  Horse,  my  Ox,  my  Ass,  my  any  thing.” 

And  I would  animadvert  still  further,  did  I not  think  I had 
already  said  sufficient  to  gain  the  object  of  guarding  my  own 
reputation.  That  object  has  solely  sway’d  me  in  dwelling  so  long 
upon  a “ plain  tale,”  encumber’d  with  so  fatiguing  a Hero  as  John 
Kemble. 


PKEFACE  TO  the  IKON  CHEST. 


18 


ADVERTISEMENT 

TO  THE  READER. 

I indebted  for  the  ground-work  of  this  Play  to  a Novel,  entitled 

TInngfs  as  They  Are^  or  the  Adventures  of  Caleb  Williams;  written 
by  William  GodwinT  Much  of  Mr.  Godwin’s  story  I have  omitted ; 
much,  which  I have  adopted,  I have  compress’d;  much  I have 
added ; and  much  I have  taken  the  liberty  to  alter. 

All  this  I did  that  I might  fit  it,  in  the  best  of  my  judgment,  to 
the  stage. 

I have  cautiously  avoided  all  tendency  to  that  which,  vulgarly, 
(wrongly,  in  many  instances,)  is  termed  Politics ; with  which, 
many  have  told  me,  Caleb  Williams  teems. 

The  stage  has,  now,  no  business  with  Politics : and,  should  a 
Dramatic  Author  endeavour  to  dabble  in  them,  it  is  the  Lord 
Chamberlain’s  ofiice  to  check  his  attempts,  before  they  meet  the 
eye  of  the  Public.  I perused  Mr.  Godwin’s  book  as  a talc  replete 
t^ith  interesting  incident,  ingenious  in  its  arrangement,  masterly 
in  its  delineation  of  character,  and  forcible  in  its  language.  I con- 
sidered it  as  right  of  Common ; and,  by  a title  which  custom  has 
given  to  Dramatists,  I enclosed  it  within  my  theatrical  paling. 
However  I may  have  till’d  the  land,  1 trust  he  discovers  no  inten- 
tional injury  to  him,  in  my  proceeding. 

To  all  the  Performers  (excepting  Mr.  Kemble)  I offer  my  hearty 
thanks  for  their  exertions  ; which  would  have  served  me  more,  had 
not  an  actor,  “ dark  as  Erebus^  cast  a gloom  upon  them,  which 
none  of  their  efforts,  however  brilliant,  could  entirely  disperse. 

But  this  does  not  diminish  my  obligations  to  them: — so  much, 
indeed,  I owe  to  them,  that,  when  the  Play  was  last  performed,  it 
was  rising,  spite  of  Erebus^  in  favour  with  the  Town.  It  was,  then, 
advertised,  day  after  day,  at  the  bottom  of  the  Play  bills,  for 
repetition,  till  the  promissory  advertisement  became  laughable ; and, 
at  length,  the  advertisement  and  the  Play  were  dropt  together. 

If,  after  the  foregoing  Preface,  I should  at  a future  period,  bring 
the  Play  forward,  in  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  I am  fully  aware  of 
the  numbers  who,  from  party,  and  pique,  may  now  oppose  it.  I 
am  aware,  too,  of  the  weight  'which  a first  impression  leaves  upon 
the  minds  of  the  most  candid : — Still,  so  strong  is  my  confidence  in 
the  genuine  decision  of  a London  audience,  who  have  a fair  oppor- 
tunity of  exercising  their  judgment,  and  feelings,  (which  they  have 
not  had,  yet,  in  respect  to  this  play) , that  I believe  I shall  venture 
an  appeal. 

The  Piece  is,  now,  printed  as  it  was  acted  on  the  first  night ; 
that  they  who  peruse  it  may  decide  whether,  even  in  that  shape, 
(with  all  the  misfortunes,  fcfore  enumerated,  with  whicdi  it  was 
doomed  to  struggle)  it  should  be,  for  ever,  consigned  to  moulder  on 
the  shelf. 

The  Songs,  Duets,  and  Chorusscs,  are  intended  merely  as  vehicles 
for  musical  effect.  Some  Critics  have  pompously  called  them 

B 


14 


PREFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


Lyrick  Poetry — that,  by  raising  them  to  dignity,  they  may  more 
effectually  degrade  them:  as  men  lift  a stone  very  high,  before 
they  let  it  fall,  when  they  would  completely  dash  it  to  pieces. 

I,  now,  leave  the  gentle  reader  to  the  perusal  of  the  Play — and, 
lest  my  Father’s  memory  may  be  injured  by  mistakes;  and,  in  the 
confusion  of  after-times,  the  Translator  of  Terence,  and  the  Author 
of  The  Jealous  Wife,  be  supposed  guilty  of  the  Iron  Chest,  I shall, 
were  I to  reach  the  Patriarchal  longevity  of  Methusalch,  continue 
(in  all  my  Dramatic  publications)  to  subscribe  myself 

GEORGE  COLMAN,  the  Younger. 

Piccadilly, 

July  2m,  1796. 


POSTSCRIPT. 


Inveni  PortumV' 

I HAVE,  now,  previous  to  the  publication  of  this  edition  of  The  Iron 
Chest,  made  the  appeal  suggested  in  the  foregoing  Advertisement. 
I have  produced  the  Pla}^  at  my  own  'ilicatre,  in  the  Haymarket. 

Reflecting  on  the  prejudice  it  would  encounter,  my  hopes  of 
success  were  very  moderate ; —had  my  expectations,  however,  been 
most  sanguine,  I should  not  have  suffered  a disappointment.  The 
Piece  was  received  with  strong  marks  of  approbation ; it  is  now, 
nightly,  performing ; and,  if  numerous  auditors,  and  full  applause, 
can  gratify  a Dramatic  Author,  I am  gratified  completely. 

The  Play,  as  now  representing,  varies  from  the  printed  copy  in 
scarcely  more  than  six  lines,  except  in  mere  curtailment : and  it  is 
printed  (as  I have  already  stated)  as  it  was  first  acted,  in  Drury 
Lane. 

The  chief  Performers  new  in  the  Piece,  at  the  Haymarket,  are 
Messrs,  Elliston,  Aickin,  Fawcett,  Palmer,  C.  Kemhle,  Mrs.  Kemhle, 
and  3Irs.  Bland.  Their  efforts  to  serve  me  demand  my  warmest 
acknowledgements;  to  dwell  upon  their  abilities  would  be 
superfluous.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  all  the  representatives  of  the 
Dramatis  Pcrsonce  did  ample  credit  to  themselves ; and  added,  I 
trust,  no  small  portion  of  reputation  to  the  Theatre. 

But,  let  not  my  Corps  Dramatique  think  it  invidious  if  I single 
Mr.  Elliston  from  their  number,  who  is  peculiarly  predicamented 
in  coming  forward  in  a character  of  which  so  much  has  already 
been  said.  This  young  Actor,  new  this  summer,  to  the  boards  of 
a London  theatre,  with  a juvenility  of  person,  in  this  instance 
unfavourable  to  him,  has  sustained  a part,  written,  expressly 
for  the  powers  of  another  man,  (and  that  man  as  strong  a mannerist 
as  ever  wore  a buskin)  in  a mode  which  might  well  become  an 


PREFACE  TO  THE  IRON  CHEST. 


15 


established  veteran  of  the  stage.  It  is  far  from  my  intention  to 
draw  general  comparisons — but  it  is  impossible,  here,  to  avoid 
speaking  of  the  two  actors  of  /Sir  Edioard  Mortimer.  The  first 
mangled,  and  finally  sunk  my  Play  ; the  second  healed  the  wounds 
it  had  received,  and  is,  now,  (with  the  rest  of  his  brethren)  ably 
supporting  it.  It  is  bare  truth  to  say,  that  Mr.  Elliston's  conduct 
to  me,  and  his  performance  of  the  character,  have  been  the  very 
reverse  of  Mr.  Kemhle^s  : — were  it  more  than  bare  truth,  it  would 
be  a high  compliment. 

I,  now,  beg  the  Reader  to  compare  this  Postscript  with  the 
Pre  face ; and,  I think,  he  will  readily  observe,  that  the  one  most 
fully  establishes  the  other  — Here  are  facts,  experimental  facts, 
now  given,  and,  nightly,  continuing  to  be  given,  to  corroborate  the 
arguments  I have  advanced,  and  to  prove  that  my  complaint  is 
well  founded. 

I must,  here,  repeat  that  I have  had  but  one  motive  in  these 
statements  : — the  motive  which  I have  avowed  in  the  conclusion 
of  my  Preface. — I have  effected  my  purpose ; — and  I feel  not  the 
least  ill  will  towards  Mr.  Kemble — but  my  reason  tells  me  that  I 
had  better  go  to  Constantinople,  to  do  him  a service,  than  put 
future  faith  in  his  management,  and  his  acting. 

As  to  the  poor,  pelting  Paragraphists,  and  Pamphleteers 
he  cannot,  I am  sure,  be  pleased  in  observing  the  contemptilDle 
dirt  with  which  they  have  endeavoured  to  bespatter  me.  I have, 
I think,  stated  that  they  are  below  my  notice : — but,  so  sore  is 
man,  spite  of  his  boasted  apathy,  that  I cannot  help  giving,  here, 
a general  reply  to  their  animadversions. 

My  language  will,  I trust,  be  found  more  liberal  than  the 
jargon  of  my  opponents;  and  my  arguments  fully  as  convincing. 
Thus  I address  them  : 

Gentlemen  ! ! ! 

Pshaw ! Pish ! Pooh ! Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Your  obedient, 

G.  COLMAN,  ike  Younger, 

Piccadilly^ 

September  5,  1796. 


16 


THE  IRON  CHEST, 


First  performed  at  the  Theatre  Royal  Drury  LanCf 
on  March  12,  1796. 

THE  PRINCIPAL  CHARACTERS 
“ By  Mr.  KEMBLE,”  &c. 

Drury- Lane  Play  Bill. 

••I  had  as  lieve  the  Town-Crier  had  spoke  my  Lines.” 

Shakapectre. 

t^oracUrs. 

SIR  EDWARD  MORTIMER  Mb.  Kemble!!! 

FITZHAKDING  (Jiis  elder  Brother) Mr.  AVroughton. 

WILFORD  {Secretary}  to  Sir  Edimrd)..,...  Mr.  Bannister,  jun» 

ADAM  WINTERTON  [the  Steward)  Mr.  Dodd. 

RAAV  BOLD  Mr.  Barrymore. 

SAMSON  RAWBOLD  Qds  Son)  Mr.  Suett. 

*BOY  Master  Welsh. 

COOK  Mr.  Hollingsworth^ 

PETER  Mr.  Banks. 

WALTER  Mr.  Maddoks. 

SIMON Mr.  Webb.  . 

GREGORY Mr.  Trueman. 

ARMSTRONG  Mr.  Kelly. 

ORSON Mr.  R.  Palmer. 

FIRST  ROBBER Mr.  Dignum. 

SECOND  ROBBER Mr.  Sedgwick. 

THIRD  ROBBER Mr.  Bannister. 

ROBBER’S  BOY Master  Webb. 

LADY  HELEN  Miss  Farrhn. 

BLANCH : .' Mrs.  Gibbs. 

*DAME  RAWBOLD  Miss  T^dswell. 

BARBARA Signora  Storacb. 

JUDITH Miss  De  Camp. 


SCENE.—  The  New  Forest^  in  Hampshire,  and  on  Us  Borders* 
[For  Costumes,  see  the  end  of  the  Piece.] 


♦Now  omitted. 


THE  IRON  CHEST, 


ACT  1. 

Scene!.— TAe  imide  of  Rawhold's  Cottage^  l;  Barbara 
seated^  r.  ; Samson  standing  in  the  front  of  the  stage^  c.  / 
a taper  burning  on  a table^  R.  c. ; a door^  l.  c.  ; the 
whole  scene  exhibits  poverty  and  wretchedness, 

Samson.  Five  o’clock,  and  father  not  yet  returned  from 
the  New  Forest ! An  he  come  not  shortly,  the  sun  will  rise, 
and  roast  the  venison  on  his  shoulders. — Sister  Barbara ! 
— Well,  your  rich  men  have  no  bowels  for  us  lowly  ! they 
little  think  while  they  are  gorging  on  the  fat  haunch  of  a 
goodly  buck,  what  fatigues  we  poor  honest  souls  undergo 
in  stealing  it. — Why,  sister  Barbara  ! 

Barbara.  I am  here,  brother  Samson,  [getting  up) 
Samson.  Here ! marry,  out  upon  you  for  an  idle  bag- 
gage ! why,  you  crawl  like  a snail. 

Barbara,  (l.  c.)  I prithee,  now,  do  not  chide  me, 
Samson. 

Samson.  ’Tis  my  humour.  I am  father’s  head  man  in 
his  poaching.  The  rubs  I take  from  him,  who  is  above 
me,  I hand  down  to  you,  who  are  below  me.  ’Tis  the 
way  of  office — where  every  miserable  devil  domineers  it 
over  the  next  more  miserable  devil  that’s  under  him. 
You  may  scold  sister  Margery,  an  you  will — she’s  your 
younger  by  a twelvemonth. 

Barbara.  Truly,  brother,  I would  not  make  any  one 
unhappy,  for  the  world.  I am  content  to  do  what  I can 
to  please,  and  to  mind  the  house. 

Samson.  Truly,  a weighty  matter  ! Thou  art  e’en  ready 
to  hang  thyself,  for  want  of  something  to  while  away  time. 
What  hast  thon  much  more  to  do,  than  to  trim  the  fsiggots, 
nurse  thy  mother,  boil  the  pot,  patch  our  jackets,  kill  the 
poultry,  cure  the  hogs,  feed  the  pigs,  and  combtlie  children? 


18  THE  IRON  CHEST.  [ACT  I. 

Barbara.  Many  might  think  that  no  small  charge, 
Samson. 

Samson.  A mere  nothing.  While  father  and  I (bate  us 
but  the  mother  and  children)  have  the  credit  of  purloining 
every  single  thing  that  you  have  the  care  of.  We  are  up 
early,  and  down  late,  in  the  exercise  of  our  industry. 

Barbara.  I wish  father  and  you  would  give  up  the 
calling. 

Samson.  No — there  is  one  keen  argument  to  prevent  us. 

Barbara.  Whafs  that,  brother? 

Samson.  Hunger.  Would’ st  have  us  be  rogues,  and 
let  our  family  starve  ? Give  up  poaching  and  deer  stealing! 
Oons ! dost  think  we  have  no  conscience  ? Y onder  sits 
mother,  poor  soul!  [points  off  r.) — old,  helpless,  and 
crazy. 

Barbara.  Alas ! brother,  ’tis  heart-aching  to  look  upon 
her.  This  very  time  three  years  she  got  her  maim.  It 
was  a piteous  tempest. 

Samson.  Aye — ’twas  rough  weather.  The  cottage  was 
blown  down — the  barn  fired — father  undone — Well,  land- 
lords are  flinty  hearted — no  help!  what  then?  We  live, 
don’t  we  ? [sullenly) 

Barbara.  Troth,  brother,  very  sadly.  Father  has  grown 
desperate  ; all  is  fallen  to  decay.  We  live  by  pilfering  on 
the  forest — and  our  poor  mother  distracted,  and  unable  to 
look  to  the  house.  The  rafter,  which  fell  in  the  storm, 
struck  so  heavy  upon  her  brain,  I fear  me,  ’twill  never 
again  be  settled.  The  little  ones  too — scarce  clothed — 
hungry — almost  starving ! — Indeed,  we  are  a very  wretched 
family. 

Samson.  Hark ! Methought  I heard  a tread,  [knock  at 
door^  L.  c.)  Hist,  be  wary.  The  word? 

Raavbold.  [without)  Roebuck. 

Samson  opens  the  door  in  flat^  and  Rawbold  enters, 

Rawbold.  Bar  the  door.  So,  softly. 

Samson.  What  success,  father? 

Rawbold.  Good : my  limbs  ache  for’t.  How  you 
stand!  [to  Samson)  The  cliair,  you  gander. 

Samson,  [to  Barbara)  Why,  how  you  stand!  the 
chair,  you  gander!  [they  bring  Rawbold  a chair — he  sits,  c.) 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


19 


sc.  I.] 

Rawbold.  Here — take  my  gun — ’tis  unscrewed.  Th« 
keepers  are  abroad.  I had  scarce  time  to  get  it  in  my 
pocket,  [he  pulls  the  gun  from  a pocket  under  his  coat^  in 
three  pieces^  which  Samson  screws  together^  while  they  arc 
talking)  Fie  1 His  sharp  work ! Barbara,  you  jade,  come 
hither. 

Samson,  (l.  c.)  Barbara,  you  shade,  come  hither. 

Rawbold.  Who  bid  thee  chide  her,  lout ! Kiss  thy 
old  father,  wench.  Kiss  me  I say. — So — why  dost 
tremble  ? I am  rough  as  a tempest.  Evil  fortune  has 
blown  my  lowering  nature  into  turbulence  : but  thou  art  a 
blossom  that  dost  bend  thy  head  so  sweetly  under  my 
^usts  of  passion.  His  pity  they  should  eHr  harm  thee. 

Barbara.  Indeed,  father,  I am  glad  to  see  you  safe 
xeturned. 

Rawbold.  I believe  thee.  Take  the  keys.  Go  to  the 
locker,  in  the  loft,  and  bring  me  a glass  to  recruit  me. 

Barbara  goes  out  l.  2 e.  Samson  puts  off  the 
gun^  R.,  and  goes  down  r.  c. 

Samson.  Well,  father,  and  so 

Rawbold.  Peace. — I ha^  shot  a buck. 

Samson.  0 rare  ! Of  all  the  sure  aims  on  the  borders 
of  the  New  Forest,  here,  give  me  old  Gilbert  Rawbold ; 
•though  I,  who  am  his  son,  say  it,  that  should  not  say  it. 
Where  have  you  stowed  him,  father  ? 

Rawbold.  Under  the  furze,  behind  the  hovel.  Come 
night  again,  we  wiU  draw  him  in,  boy.  I have  been 
watched. 

Samson.  Watched!  Oh,  the  pestilence!  our  trade  will 
be  spoil’ d if  the  game- keepers  be  after  us.  The  law 
will  persecute  us,  father. 

Rawbold.  Dost  know  Mortimer  ? 

Samson.  What,  Sir  Edward  Mortimer  ? Aye,  sure.  He 
is  bead  keeper  of  the  forest.  ’Tis  he  who  has  shut  himself 
up  in  melancholy.  Sees  no  rich,  and  does  so  much  good 
to  the  poor. 

Rawbold.  He  has  done  me  naught  but  evil.  A gun 
cannot  be  carried  on  the  border,  here,  but  he  has  scent 
onH  at  a league’s  distance.  He  is  a thorn  to  me.  His 
scouts  this  night  were  after  me—  all  on  the  watch.  I’ll 
be  revenged — I’ll — So,  the  brandy. 


20 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[ACT  L 


Enter  Barbara,  with  the  liquor^  L.  2 e. 

{after  drinking)  ^Tis  right,  i’ faith ! 

Samson.  That  Tis,  111  he  sworn ; for  I smuggled  it 
myself.  We  do  not  live  so  near  the  coast  for  nothing. 

Rawbold.  Sir  Edward  Mortimer,  look  to  it ! 

Barbara.  Sir  Edward  Mortimer!  Oh,  dear  father, 
what  of  him  ? 

Rawbold.  Aye,  now  thou  art  all  agog ! Thou  would’ st 
hear  somewhat  of  that  smooth-tongued  fellow,  his 
secretary — his  clerk,  Wilford ; whom  thou  so  often 
meet’st  in  the  forest.  I have  news  on’t.  Look  how  you 
walk  thither  again.  What,  thou  would’st  betray  me  to 
him,  I warrant ; — conspire  against  your  father. 

Samson.  Aye,  conspire  against  your  father — and  your 
tender  loving  brother,  you  viper,  you ! 

Barbara.  Beshrew  me,  father,  I meant  no  harm : and, 
indeed,  indeed,  Wilford  is  as  handsome  a — I mean  as  good 
a youth  as  ever  breathed.  If  I thought  he  meant  ill  by 
you,  I should  hate  him. 

Rawbold.  When  didst  see  him  last  ? — Speak  ! 

Barbara.  You  terrify  me  so,  father,  I am  scarce  able 
to  speak.  Yesternoon,  by  the  copse.  ’Twas  but  to  read 
with  him  the  book  of  sonnets  he  gave  me. 

Samson.  That’s  the  way  your  sly,  grave  rogues,  work 
into  the  hearts  of  the  females.  I never  knew  any  good 
come  of  a girl’s  reading  sonnets,  with  a learned  clerk,  under 
a copse. 

Rawbold.  Let  me  hear  no  more  of  your  meetings.  I 
am  content  to  think  you  would  not  plot  my  undoing. 

Barbara.  I? — 0 father! 

Rawbold.  But  he  may  plot  yours.  Mark  me — Fortune 
has  tlirust  me  forth  to  prowl,  like  the  wolf ; — but  the  wolf 
is  anxious  for  its  young.  I am  an  outcast,  whom  hunger 
has  hardened.  I violate  the  law ; but  feeling  is  not  dead 
within  me  : and,  callous  villain  as  I am  accounted,  I would 
tear  that  greater  villain  piecemeal,  who  would  seduce  my 
child,  and  rob  an  old  man  of  the  little  remains  of  comfort 
wretchedness  has  left  him.  (a  knocking  at  the  door  in  flat) 

Wilford.  {without)  Hilliho  ! ho  ! 

Rawbold.  How  now ! 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


21 


8C.  I.] 

Samson.  There  ! an  they  be  not  after  us  already.  1^11 
— We  have  talked,  too,  till  ’tis  broad  day-light. 

WiLFORD.  [without)  Open,  good  master  Rawbold ; I 
would  speak  to  you  suddenly. 

Barbara.  Oh  heaven  ! ^tis  the  voice  of  Wilford  himself. 

Rawbold.  Wilford  ! I’m  glad  on’t — Now  he  shall — 
I’m  glad  on’t.  Open  the  door  : quickly  I say.  He  shall 
smart  for  it. 

Samson.  Are  you  mad,  father?  ’Tis  we  shall  smart 
for  it.  Let  in  the  keeper’s  head  man ! The  hind  quarter 
of  a buck  has  hung  these  fourteen  days  in  the  pantry. 

Rawbold.  Open,  I say. 

Samson.  Oh  Lord ! I defy  any  secretary’s  nose  not  to 
smell  stolen  venison  the  moment  ’tis  thrust  into  our  hovel. 

Samson  opens  the  door.  Enter  Wilford,  door  in  flat — 
comes  down  r.  of  Rawbold. 

Wilford.  Save  you,  good  people.  You  are  Gilbert 
Rawbold,  as  I take  it. 

RAwmoLD.  I am.  Your  message  here,  young  man^ 
bodes  me  no  good  : but  I am  Gilbert  Rawbold — and  here’s 
my  daughter.  Dost  know  her  ? 

Wilford.  Ah,  Barbara,  good  wench  I how  fares  it  with 
you  ? 

Rawbold.  Look  on  her  well — then  consult  your  own 
conscience.  ’Tis  difficult,  haply,  for  a secretary  to  find 
one.  You  are  a villain. 

Wilford.  You  lie.  Hold,  I crave  pardon.  You  are  her 
father.  She  is  innocent,  and  you  are  unhappy  : I respect 
virtue  and  misfortune  too  much  to  shock  the  one  or  insult 
the  other. 

Rawbold.  ’Sdeath ! why  meet  my  daughter  in  the 
forest  ? 

Wilford.  Because  I love  her. 

Rawbold.  And  would  ruin  her. 

Wilford.  That’s  a strange  way  of  shewing  one’s  love,, 
methinks.  I have  a simple  notion,  Gilbert,  that  the  thought 
of  having  taken  a base  advantage  of  a poor  girl’s  affection 
might  go  nigh  to  break  a man’s  sleep,  and  give  him  unquiet 
dreams ; now,  I love  my  night’s  rest,  and  shall  do  nothing 
to  disturb  it. 


22 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act 


Rawbold.  Wo■uld^st  not  poison  her  mind? 

WiLFORD.  ^Tis  not  my  method,  friend,  of  dosing  a 
patient.  Look  ye,  Gilbert ; her  mind  is  a fair  flower^ 
struck  in  the  rude  soil,  here,  of  surrounding  ignorance, 
and  smiling  in  the  chill  of  poverty : — I would  fain  cheer 
it  with  the  little  sunshine  I possess  of  comfort  and 
information.  My  parents  were  poor  like  her’s;  slioiild 
occasion  serve,  I might,  haply,  were  all  parties  agreed, 
make  her  my  wife.  To  offer  ought  else  would  affect  her, 
you,  and  myself;  and  I have  no  talent  at  making  three 
people  uneasy  at  the  same  time. 

Rawbold.  Your  hand.  On  your  own  account,  we  are 
friends. 

Barbara.  0 dear  father  ! 

Rawbold.  Be  silent.  Now  to  your  errand.  'Tis  from 
Mortimer. 

WiLFORD.  I come  from  Sir  Edward. 

Rawbold.  I know  his  malice.  He  would  oppress  me 
with  his  power.  He  would  starve  me  and  my  family. 
Search  my  house. 

Samson.  No,  father,  no.  [aside)  You  forget  the  hind 
quarter  in  the  pantry,  [on  l.,  then  behind  to  R.) 

Rawbold.  Let  him  do  his  worst : but  let  him  beware. 
A tyrant ; a villain  ! 

WiLFORD.  Harkye — he  is  my  master.  I owe  him  my 
gratitude ; — every  thing ; — and  had  you  been  any  but  my 
Barbara's  father,  and  spoken  so  much  against  him,  my 
indignation  had  worked  into  my  knuckles,  and  cramm’d 
the  words  down  your  rusty  throat. 

Samson.  I do  begin  to  perceive  how  this  will  end. 
Father  will  knock  down  the  secretary  as  flat  as  a buck. 

Rawbold.  Why  am  I singled  out  ? Is  there  no  mark 
for  the  vengeance  of  office  to  shoot  its  sliaft  at  but  me  ? 
This  morning,  as  he  dogghl  me  in  the  forest 

WiLFORD.  Hush,  Rawbold;  keep  your  own  counsel. 
Should  you  make  it  public,  he  must  notice  it. 

Rawbold.  Did  he  not  notice  it  ? 

AVilford.  No  matter — but  he  has  sent  me  thus  early, 
Gilbert,  with  this  relief  to  your  distrc'scs,  which  he  has 
heard  of.  Here  are  twenty  marks  for  you  and  your 
family. 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


23 


SC.  II.] 

Rawbold.  From  Sir  Edward  Mortimer? 

WiLFORD.  Tis  his  way ; but  he  would  not  have  it 
mentioned.  He  is  one  of  those  judges  who,  in  their  office, 
will  never  warp  the  law  to  save  offenders  ; but  his  private 
•charity  bids  him  assist  the  needy,  before  their  necessities 
drive  them  to  crimes  which  his  public  duty  must  punish. 

Rawbold.  Did  Mortimer  do  this!  did  he!  heaven  bless 
him ! Oh,  young  man,  if  you  knew  half  the  misery — my 
wife — my  children — Shame  on^t ! I have  stood  many  a 
tug,  but  the  drops,  now,  fall  in  spite  of  me.  I am  not 
ungrateful ; but  I cannot  stand  it.  [shakes  his  hand)  We 
will  talk  of  Barbara  when  I have  more  man  about  me. 

Exit,  K.  1 E. 

WiLFORD.  Farewell.  I must  home  to  the  lodge,  quickly. 
Ere  this,  I warrant,  I am  look’d  for. 

Barbara.  Farewell. 

Samson.  Farewell,  {shakes  hands)  We  will  talk  of 
Barbara  when  I have  more  man  about  me. 

Takes  Barbara,  r.  1 e.  Wilford  goes  off  door  in  f. 


Scene  II. — An  old-fashioned  Hall  in  Sir  Edward 
Mortimer's  Lodge,  [2nd  grooves) 

Several  Servants  cross  the  stage  with  flagons,  tankards, 

cold  meat,  ^c,,  ^c,,  from  R.  to  L. ; Adam  Winterton 
following,  r. 

Winter.  Softly,  varlets,  softly ! See  you  crack  none 
of  the  stone  flagons.  Nay,  ’tis  plain,  your  own  break- 
fasts be  toward  by  your  shuttling  thus.  A goodly 
morning!  Why,  you  giddy-pated  knave  [to  Peter),  is 
it  so  you  carry  a dish  of  pottery  ? No  heed  of  our  good 
master  Sir  Edward  Mortimer’s  ware.  Fie,  Peter  Pick- 
hone,  fie ! 

Peter.  I am  in  haste,  master  steward  to  break  my 
fast. 

Winter.  To  break  thy  fast ! to  break  thy  neck  it 
should  seem.  Ha!  ha!  good,  i’ faith.  Go  thy  ways, 
knaves.  [Exit  Peter,  l.  ) ’Tis  thus  the  rogues  ever  have  me. 
I would  fain  be  angry  with  them  ; but,  straight,  a merry 
jest  passGth  across  me,  and  my  choler  is  over.  To  break 


24 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[ACT  I. 

thy  neck,  it  should  seem ! ha ! ha ! ^twas  well  conceited, 
by  St.  Thomas  ! — My  table-book  for  the  business  of  the 
day.  Ah,  my  memory  holds  not  as  it  did.  It  needs 
the  spur,  {looking  over  his  book)  Nine  and  forty  years 
have  I been  house- steward  and  butler.  Let  me  see. — 
Let  me  see — my  tables,  {looking  over  them  and  singing) 
When  birds  do  carol  on  the  bush, 

With  a heigh  ho  nonny — heigho  ! 

These  fatigues  of  office  somewhat  wear  a man.  I have 
had  a long  lease  onT.  I ha^  seen  out  Queen  Mary,  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  King  James.  Tis  e’en  almost  time  that  I 
should  retire,  to  begin  to  enjoy  myself.  Eh ! by  St. 
Thomas  ! liither  trips  the  fair  mistress  Blanch.  Of  all  the 
waiting  gentlewomen  I ever  look’d  on,  during  the  two 
last  reigns,  none  stirred  my  fancy  like  this  little  rosebud. 

Enter  Blanch,  l. 

Blanch.  A good  day,  good  Adam  Winterton. 

Winter.  What  wag ! what  tulip ! I never  see  thee 
bnt  I am  a score  of  years  the  younger. 

Blanch.  Nay,  then,  let  us  not  meet  often,  or  you  will 
soon  be  in  your  second  childhood. 

Winter.  What,  you  come  from  your  mistress,  the 
Lady  Helen,  in  the  forest  here ; and  would  speak  with 
Sir  Edward  Mortimer,  I warrant. 

Blanch.  I would.  Is  his  melancholy  worship  stirring 
yet  ? 

Winter.  Fie,  you  madcap!  He  is  my  master  and 
your  lady’s  friend. 

Blanch.  Yes,  truly,  it  seems,  her  only  one,  poor  lady; 
he  protects  her  now  she  is  left  an  orphan. 

Winter.  A blessing  on  his  heart ! I would  it  were 
merrier.  Well,  she  is  much  beholden  to  Sir  Edward  for 
his  consolation ; and  he  never  affords  her  his  advice,  but 
his  bounty  is  sure  to  follow  it. 

Blanch.  Just  so  a crow  will  nourish  its  nestling;  he 
croaks  first  and  then  gives  her  food. 

Winter.  Ha!  ha!  good  i’faith! — but  wicked.  Thy 
company  will  corrupt  and  lead  me  astray.  Should  they 
happen  to  marry  (and  I have  my  fancies  on’t).  I’ll  dance 
a galliard  with  thee  in  the  hall,  on  the  round  oak  table. 


#C.  II.]  THE  IRON  CHEST.  25 

^Sbud!  when  I was  a youth,  I would  ha^  caper’d  with 
St.  Vitus,  and  beat  him. 

Blanch.  You  are  as  likely  to  dance,  now,  as  they  to 
marry.  What  has  hindered  them,  if  the  parties  be  agreed  ? 
— yet  I have  now  been  with  my  mistress  these  two  years  ! 
since  Sir  Edward  first  came  hither,  and  placed  her  in  the 
cottage,  hard  by  his  lodge. 

Winter.  Tush  ! family  reasons.  Thou  knowest  nothing : 
thou  art  scarce  catch’d.  Two  years  back,  when  we  came 
from  Kent,  and  Sir  Edward  first  entered  on  his  office,  here, 
of  head  keeper,  thou  wcrt  a colt,  running  wild  about  New 
Forest.  I hired  you  myself  to  attend  on  Madam  Helen. 

Blanch.  Nay,  I shall  never  fogi’get  it.  But  you  were 
^s  frolicksome,  then,  as  I,  methinks.  Dost  remember  the 
box  on  the  ear  I gave  thee,  Adam  ? 

Winter.  J^eace,  peace,  you  pie!  an  you  prate  thus.  I’ll 
stop  your  mouth  [ I will,  by  St.  Thomas  ! 

Blanch.  An  I be  inclined  to  the  contrary,  I do  not 
think  you  are  able  to  stop  it. 

Winter.  Out,  you  baggage  ! thou  hast  more  tricks  than 
a kitten.  Well,  go  thy  ways.  Sir  Edward  is  at  his  study, 
and  there  thou  wilt  find  him.  Ah,  Mistress  Blanch  ! had 
you  but  seen  me  in  the  early  part  of  Queen  Elizabeth’s 
xeign ! 

Blanch.  How  old  art  thou  now,  Adam  ? 

Winter.  Four  score,  come  Martlemas : and  by  our 
lady,  I can  run  with  a lapwing. 

Blanch.  Can’stthou?  Well  said!  Thou  art  a merry 
^Id  man,  and  shalt  have  a kiss  of  me,  on  one  condition. 

Winter.  Shall  I ! odsbud,  name  it,  and  ’tis  mine. 

Blanch.  Then  catch  me. 

Runs  under  his  arm^  and  off^  r. 

Winter.  Pestilence  on’t!  there  was  a time  when  my 
legs  had  served : but,  to  speak  truth,  I never  thrust  tliem 
now  into  my  scarlet  hose,  that  they  do  not  remember  me 
of  two  sticks  of  red  sealing-wax.  I was  a clean-limb’d 
stripling,  when  I first  stood  behind  Sir  Marmadiike’s  arm 
chair,  in  the  old  oak  eating- room,  {goes  up  stage) 

Enter  Wilford,  l. 

WiLFORD.  Every  new  act  of  Sir  Edward’s  charity  sets 

c 


26 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  I. 

]y;ie  a thinking ; and  the  more  I think,  the  more  I am 
puzzled.  ’Tis  strange  that  a man  should  be  so  ill  at  ease, 
who  is  continually  doing  good.  At  times,  the  wild  glare 
of  his  eye  is  frightful ; and,  last  night,  when  I was  writing 
for  him,  in  the  library,  I could  not  help  fancying  I was 
shut  up  with  the  devil.  I would  stake  my  life  there^s  a 
secret,  and  I could  almost  give  my  life  to  unravel  it.  I 
must  tp  him  for  my  morning’s  employment,  {crossing  to  R.) 

Winter.  Ah ! boy ! Wilford ! secretary ! whither 
away,  lad? 

Wilford.  Mr.  Winterton ! — Aye,  marry,  this  good  old 
man  has  the  clue,  could  I but  coax  him  to  give  it  me.  A 
good  morning  to  you,  sir  ! 

Winter.  Yea,  and  the  like  to  thee,  boy.  Come,  thou 
shalt  have  a cup  of  Canary  from  my  corner  cupboard, 
yonder. 

Wilford.  Not  a drop. 

Winter.  Troth,  I bear  thee  a good  will,  for  thy  honest 
old  dead  father’s  sake.  ^ 

Wilford.  I do  thankfully  perceive  it,  sir.  Your  placing 
me  in  Sir  Edward’s  family,  some  nine  months  ago,  when 
my  poor  father  died  and  left  me  friendless,  will  never  out 
of  my  memory. 

Winter.  Tut,  boy,  no  merit  of  mine  in  assisting  the 
friendless — ’tis  our  duty,  child.  I could  never  abide  to 
see  honest  industry  chop-fallen.  I love  to  have  folks 
merry  about  me,  to  my  heart. 

Wilford.  I would  you  could  instil  some  mirth  into  our 
good  master,  Sir  Edward.  You  are  an  old  domestic — the 
only  one  he  brought  with  him,  two  years  back,  from 
Kent — and  might  venture  to  give  his  spirits  a jog : he 
seems  devoured  with  spleen  and  melancholy. 

Winter.  You  are  a prying  boy — go  to ! I have  told 
thee,  a score  of  times,  I would  not  have  thee  curious 
about  our  worthy  master’s  humour. 

AVilford.  I should  cease  to  pry,  sir,  would  you  but 
once  (as  I think  you  have  more  than  once  seemed  in- 
clined) gratify  my  much-raised  curiosity. 

AYinter.  AA^cll  said,  i’faith  ; I do  not  doubt  thee.  I 
warrant  thou  wouldst  cease  to  enquire,  when  I had  told 
thee  all  thou  wouldst  know.  AVhat,  greenhorn,  did’st 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


27 


SC.  II.] 

thou  think  to  trap  the  old  man  ? Go  thy  ways,  boy  ! I 
have  a head  : old  Adam  Winterton  can  sift  a subtle  speech 
to  the  bottom. 

WiLFORD.  Ah,  good  sir,  you  need  not  tell  me  that. 
Young  as  I am,  I can  admire  that  experience  in  another, 
which  I want  myself. 

Winter.  There  is  something  marvellous  engaging  in 
this  young  man.  You  have  a world  of  promise,  boy. 
Well,  beware  how  you  offend  Sir  Edward. 

WiLFORD.  I would  not  willingly,  for  the  world  : he  has 
been  the  kindest  master  to  me  ; but  whilst  my  fortunes 
ripen  in  the  warmth  of  his  goodness,  the  frozen  gloom  of 
his  countenance  chills  me. 

AVinter.  Well,  well,  take  heed  how  you  prate  on’t. 
Out  on  these  babbling  boys  ! there  is  no  keeping  a secret 
with  younkers  in  a family. 

WiLFORD.  {very  eagerly)  What  then  there  is  a secret ! — 
'Tis  as  I guessed,  after  all. 

Winter.  Why,  how  now,  hot-head  ? — Mercy  on  me ! 
an  this  tinder-box  boy  do  not  make  me  shake  with  ap- 
prehension. Is  it  thus  you  take  my  frequent  counsel? 

WiLFORD.  Dear  sir,  Tis  your  counsel  which  most  I 
covet.  Give  me  but  that ; admit  me  to  your  confidence ; 
steer  me  with  your  advice,  which  I ever  held  excellent ; 
and,  with  such  a pilot,  I may  sail  prosperously  through  a 
current  which,  otherwise,  might  wreck  me. 

Winter.  ^Tis  melting  to  see  how  unfledged  youth  will 
shelter  itself,  like  a chicken,  under  the  wing  of  such  a tough 
old  cock  as  myself!  AVell,  well.  I’ll  think  on’t,  boy. 

WiLFORD.  The  old  answer.  Yet,  he  softens  apace : 
could  I but  clench  him  now.  Faith,  sir,  ’tis  a raw  morn- 
ing ; and  I care  not  if  I taste  the  Canary  your  kindness 
offered. 

AVinter.  Aha!  lad!  say’ st  thou  so ? Just  my  modest 
humour  when  I was  young.  I ever  refused  my  glass  at 
first,  but  I came  to  it  ere  I had  quitted  my  company. 
Here’s  the  key  of  the  corner  cupboard,  yonder.  See  you 
do  not  crack  the  bottle,  you  heedless  goose,  you ! 

AYilford  goes  l.,  and  returns  with  bottle 

and  glasses. 

Ha  ! fill  it  up.  Od  ! it  sparkles  curiously.  Here’s  to— 


r 


28  THE  IRON  CHEST.  [ACT  I. 

I prithee,  tell  me  now,  Wilford ; didst  ever  in  thy  life  see 
a waiting  gentlewoman  with  a more  inviting  eye  than  the 
little  Mrs.  Blanch  ? 

AYilfokd.  Here’s  Mistress  Blanch,  (drinks) 

Winter.  Ah,  wag!  well,  go  thy  ways  ! Well,  when 
I was  of  thy  age — odsbud  1 no  matter ; ’tis  past,  now ; 
but  liere’s  the  little  Mistress  Blanch,  (drinks) 

WiLFORD.  ’Tis  thought,  here,  Sir  Edward  means  to 
marry  her  lady,  Madam  Helen. 

AYinter.  Nay,,  I know  not.  She  has  long  been  en- 
amoured of  him,  poor  lady!  when  he  was  the  gay,  the 
gallant  Sir  Edward,  of  Kent.  Ah,  well  I two  years  make 
a wond’rous  change ! 

Wilford.  Yes,  ’tis  a good  tough  love,  now-a-days, 
that  will  hold  out  a couple  of  twelvemonths. 

Winter.  Away,  I mean  not  so,  you  giddy  pate  ! He 
is  all  honour  ; and  as  steady  in  his  course  as  the  sun : yet 
I wonder  sometimes  he  can  bear  to  look  upon  her. 

Wilford.  Eh  ? why  so  ? Did  not  he  bring  her,  under 
his  protection,  to  the  Forest ; since,  Yis  said,  she  lost  her 
relations  ? 

AYinter.  Hush,  boy!  on  your  life,  do  not  name  her 
uncle — I would  say  her  relations. 

AYilford.  Her  uncle  ! wherefore?  Where’s  the  harm 
of  having  an  uncle,  dead  or  alive  ? 

Winter.  Peace,  peace!  In  that  uncle  lies  the  secret. 

AYilford.  Indeed!  how,  good  xAdam  Winterton?  I 
prithee,  how?  Let  us  drink  sir  Edward’s  health. 

AAYnter.  That  I would,  though  ’twere  a mile  to  the 
bottom,  (drinks)  Ha,  it’s  cheering,  i’faith ! 

Wilford.  And  this  uncle,  you  say 

Winter.  Of  Aladam  Helen — ha!  there  lies  the  inischieL 

AYilford.  AA’^liat  mischief  can  be  in  him?  why,  he  is 
dead. 

Winter.  Come  nearer — see  you  prate  not  now,  on  your 
life.  Our  good  master.  Sir  Edward,  was  arraigned  on  his 
account  in  open  court. 

AA'ilford.  Arraigned  I how  mean  you? 

AYinter.  Alas,  boy  ! tried.  Tried  for — nearer  yet — his. 
murder. 

AYil  ford.  Mu — mu — murder  ! 


sc.  II.]  THE  IRON  CHEST.  29 

Winter.  Why,  what!  why,  Wilford ! out,  alas!  the 
hoy^s  passion  will  betray  all ! what,  Wilford,  I say. 

Wilford.  You  have  curdled  my  blood ! 

Winter.  What,  varlet,  thou  darest  not  think  ill  of  our 
worthy  master  ? 

AV  ILFORD.  I — I am  his  secretary.  Often  alone  with 
him  at  dead  midnight,  in  his  library.  The  candles  in  the 
sockets — and  a man  glaring  upon  me  who  has  committed 
mur— ugh  ! 

Winter.  Committed!  Thou  art  a base  lying  knave, 

to  say  it ; and  while  I wear  a rapier.  I’ll tush ! 

Heaven  help  me  1 I forget  I am  fourscore.  WelJ,  well 
— hear  me,  pettish  boy,  hear  me.  AVhy,  look  now,  thou 
•dost  not  attend. 

Wilford.  I — I mark ; I mark. 

Winter.  I tell  thee,  then,  our  good  Sir  Edward  was 
beloved  in  Kent,  where  he  had  returned  a year  before 
from  his  travels;  Madam  Helen’s  uncle  was  hated  by  all 
the  neighbourhood,  rich  and  poor.  A mere  brute,  dost 
mark  me. 

Wilford.  Like  enough  : but  when  brutes  walk  upon 
two  legs,  the  law  of  the  land,  thank  Heaven  ! will  not 
suffer  us  to  butcher  them. 

Winter.  Go  to,  you  firebrand ! Our  good  master 
laboured  all  he  could,  for  many  a month,  to  soothe  his 
turbulence,  but  in  vain.  He  picked  a quarrel  with  Sir 
Edward  in  the  public  County  Assembly ; nay,  the  strong 
ruffian  struck  him  down,  and  trampled  on  him.  Think  on 
that,  Wilford — on  our  good  master  Sir  Edward,  whose 
great  soul  was  nigh  to  burst  with  the  indignity. 

Wilford.  Well,  but  the  end  on’t. 

Winter.  Why,  our  young  master  took  horse  for  his 
Dwn  house,  determined,  as  it  appeared,  to  send  a challenge 
to  this  white-livered  giant  in  the  morning. 

Wilford.  I see.  He  killed  him  in  a duel.  That’s 
another  kind  of  butchery,  which  the  law  allows  not,  true 
humanity  shudders  at,  and  false  honour  justifies. 

Winter.  See,  now,  how  you  fly  off!  Sir  Edward’s 
revenge,  boy,  was  baffled ; for  his  antagonist  was  found 
•dead  in  the  street  that  night,  killed,  by  some  unkno^vn 
assassins,  on  his  return  I'rom  the  assembly. 


30 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  I. 


WiLFORD.  Indeed!  assassins ! 

Winter.  Nay,  His  plain  our  good  Sir  Edward  had  no 
hand  in  the  wicked  act,  for  he  was  tried,  as  I told  you,  at 
the  next  assize.  Mercy  on  me  ! Hwas  a crowded  court ; 
and  how  gentle  and  simple  threw  up  their  caps  at  his 
acquittal  1 Heaven  be  thanked  1 he  was  cleared  beyond 
the  shadow  of  doubt. 

WiLFORD.  He  was  ? — I breathe  again.  ^Twas  a happy 
thing.  Twas  the  only  way  left  of  cleansing  him  from  a 
foul  suspicion. 

Winter.  Out,  alas!  lad,  His  his  principal  grief.  He 
is  full  of  nice  feeling,  and  high  flown  honour  ; and  the 
thought  of  being  tried  for  such  a crime  has  given  him  his 
heart’s  wound.  Poor  gentleman ! he  has  shunned  the 
world  ever  since.  He  was  once  the  life  of  all  company 
but  now ! 

Sir  Edward  Mortimer,  [without^  r.)  Wintertonl 

Winter.  Hark ! some  one  calls.  Out  oii  thee ! thou 
hast  sunk  my  spirits  into  my  heels.  Who  calls  merry  old 
Adam  Winterton? 

Mortimer,  (without)  Adam  Wintertonl  come  hither  to 
me. 

Winter.  Nay,  by  our  lady,  His  Sir  Edward  himself! 
Pestilence  onH!  if  I seem  sad  now,  Hwill  be  noted.  I come, 
good  Sir  Edward. 

“ When  birds’^  (not  a word  on  thy  life  !)  do  carrol 
on  the  bush,’^ 

“ With  a hey  ho  nonny’’ Mercy  on  me  ! 

Exit^  R. 

WiLFORD.  My  throat’s  parch’d,  and  my  blood  freezes. 
A quart  of  brandy  couldn’t  moisten  the  one  nor  thaw  the 
other.  This  accounts,  then,  for  all.  Poor,  unhappy  gen- 
tleman! This  unravels  all,  from  the  first  day  of  my 
service — when  a deep  groan  made  me  run  into  the  library, 
and  I found  him  locking  up  his  papers,  in  the  iron  chest, 
as  pale  as  ashes.  Eh ! — What  can  be  in  that  chest  ? — 

Perhaps  some  proof  of no,  I shudder  at  the  suggestion. 

’Tis  not  possible  one  so  good  can  be  guilty  ot i know 

not  what  to  think — nor  what  to  resolve.  But  curiosity  is 
roused,  and,  come  what  may.  I’ll  have  an  eye  upon  him. 

Exit^  R. 


sc.  III.] 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


31 


Scene  III. — A Library. 

Sir  Edward  Mortimer  discovered  at  a writing  tahle^  c. 
Adam  WiNTERTON  attending.  Table.,  two  chairs.,  a pistol 
on  table,  Iron  Chest,  with  key  in  it,  l. 

Mortimer.  ^Tis  his  first  trespass,  so  we’ll  quit  him, 
Adam : — 

But  caution  him  how  he  offend  again. 

As  keeper  of  the  forest,  I should  fine  him. 

Winter,  (r.  c.)  Nay  that  your  worship  should.  He’ll 
prove,  ere  long, 

Mark  but  my  words — a sturdy  poacher.  Well, 

’Tis  you  know  best. 

Mortimer.  Well,  well,  no  matter,  Adam; 

He  has  a wife,  and  child. 

Winter.  Ah ! bless  your  honour ! 

Mortimer.  They  kill’d  his  dog? 

Winter.  Aye,  marry,  sir  : — a lurcher. 

Black  Martin  Wincot,  the  groom  keeper,  shot  him ; 
A perilous  good  aim. — I warrant  me 
The  rogue  has  lived  this  year  upon  that  lurcher. 
Mortimer.  Poor  wretch ! Oh ! well  bethought ; send 
Walter  to  me 

I would  employ  him ; he  must  ride  for  me, 

On  business  of  much  import. 

Winter.  Lackaday ! 

That  it  should  chance  so ! I have  sent  him  forth, 

To  Winchester,  to  buy  me  flannel  hose ; 

For  winter’s  coming  on.  Good  lack  ! that  things 
Should  fall  so  crossly ! 

Mortimer.  Nay,  nay,  do  not  fret : 

’Tis  better  that  my  business  cool,  good  Adam, 

Than  thy  old  limbs. 

Winter.  Ah!  you’ve  a kindly  heart! 

Mortimer.  Is  Wilford  waiting? 

Winter.  Wilford!  mercy  on  me! 

I tremble  now  to  hear  his  name.  He  is 

Here  in  the  hall,  sir. 

Mortimer.  Send  him  in,  I prithee. 

Winter.  I shall,  sir.  Heaven  bless  you!  heaven  bless 
you  ! Exit,  R. 


32  THE  IRON  CHEST.  [ACT 

Mortimer.  Good  morning,  good  old  heart ! This  honest 

soul  {rismg) 

Would  fain  look  cheery  in  my  house^s  gloom, 

And,  like  a gay  and  sturdy  ever- green, 

Smiles  in  the  midst  of  blast  and  desolation. 

Where  all  around  him  withers.  Well,  well — wither  I 
Perish  this  frail  and  fickle  frame ! — this  clay. 

That  in  its  dross-like  compound,  doth  contain 
The  mind’s  pure  ore  and  essence. — Oh!  that  mind  I 
That  mind  of  man  ! that  god- like  spring  of  action ! 
That  source,  whence  learning,  virtue,  honour,  flow! — 
Which  lifts  us  to  the  stars ; which  carries  us 
O’er  the  swoll’n  waters  of  the  angry  deep. 

As  swallows  skim  the  air. — That  Fame’s  sole  fountain! 
That  doth  transmit  a fair,  and  spotless  name. 

When  the  vile  trunk  is  rotten  : — Give  me  that! 

Oh  ! give  me  but  to  live,  in  after- age. 

Remember’d  and  unsullied ! — Heaven  and  earth  I 
Let  my  pure  flame  of  honour  shine  in  story. 

When  I am  cold  in  death — and  the  slow  fire. 

That  wears  my  vitals  now,  will  no  more  move  me 
Than  'twould  a corpse  within  a monument. 

{aknoclc  at  the  door  of  the  library^  R.) 
How  now  ? Who’s  there  ! Come  in. 

Enter  W ilford,  r.  d. 

Wilford  ! is’t  you  ? You  were  not  wont  to  knock. 
WiLFOKD.  I fear’d  I might  surprise  you,  sir, 

Mortimer.  Surprise  me ! 

Wilford.  I mean — disturb  you,  sir  : — yes — at  your  stu- 
dies— 

Disturb  you  at  your  studies. 

Mortimer.  Very  strange! 

You  were  not  used  to  be  so  cautious. 

Wilford.  No — 

I never  used — but  I — hum — I have  learnt 

Mortimer.  Learnt! 

Wilford.  Better  manners,  sir.  I was  quite  raw. 

When,  in  your  bounty,  you  first  sheltered  me : 

But,  thanks  to  your  great  goodness,  and  tlie  lessons 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


33 


sc.  III.] 

Of  Mr.  Winterton,  I still  improve, 

And  pick  up  something  daily. 

Mortimer.  Aye,  indeed! 

Winterton  ! No  he  dare  not.  Hark  you,  sir. 

(stepping  up  to  him) 

WiLFORD.  Sir ! 

Mortimer,  {retreating  from  Mm)  What  am  I about ! — Oh, 
honour ! honour ! 

Thy  pile  should  be  so  uniform,  displace 
One  atom  of  thee,  and  the  slightest  breath 
Of  a rude  peasant  makes  thy  owner  tremble 
For  his  whole  building.  Reach  me,  from  the  shelf, 
The  volume  I was  busied  in,  last  night. 

WiLFORD.  Last  night,  sir? 

Mortimer.  Aye  ; — it  treats  of  Alexander. 

WiLFORD.  Oh,  I remember,  sir — of  Macedon. 

I made  some  extracts,  by  your  order. 

{goes  to  the  bookcase) 

Mortimer.  Books 

(My  only  commerce,  now,)  will  sometimes  rouse^ 
me 

Beyond  my  nature.  I have  been  so  warm’d, 

So  heated,  by  a well-tum’d  rhapsody. 

That  I have  seem’d  the  hero  of  the  tale. 

So  glowingly  described.  Draw  me  a man 
Struggling  for  fame,  attaining,  keeping  it, 

Dead  ages  since,  and  the  historian 
Decking  his  memory  in  polish’d  phrase. 

And  I can  follow  him  through  every  turn. 

Grow  wild  in  his  exploits,  myself  himself. 

Until  the  thick  pulsation  of  my  heart 
Wakes  me,  to  ponder  on  the  thing  I am. 

WiLFORD.  (u — giving  him  the  hook)  To  my  poor  thinking,, 
sir,  this  Alexander 

Would  scarcely  rouse  a man  to  follow  him. 
Mortimer.  Indeed  1 why  so  lad?  He  is  reckoned  brave^. 

Wise,  generous,  learn’d,  by  older  heads  than  thine. 
WiLFORD.  I cannot  tell,  sir : — I have  but  a gleaning. — 
He  conquer’d  all  the  world;  but  left  unconquer’d 
A world  of  his  own  passions — and  they  led  him, 

(It  seems  so  there)  on  petty  provocation. 


34 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  I, 


Even  to  murder. 

(Mortimer  starts — Wilford  and  he  exchange  looks 
— both  confused) 

{aside)  I have  touched  the  string — 

’Twas  unawares — I cannot  help  it. 

Mortimer,  {attempting  to  recover  himself)  Wilford — Wil- 
ford, I — you  mistake  the  character — 

I,  mark  you — he — death  and  eternal  tortures  ! 

{dashes  the  hook  on  the  floor ^ and  seizes  Wilford) 
Slave ! I will  crush  thee  ! pulverise  thy  frame  ! 

That  no  vile  particle  of  prying  nature 

May — Ha,  ha,  ha  I — I will  not  harm  thee,  boy 

O,  agony ! {rushes  off^  r.  door) 

Wilford.  Is  this  the  high-flown  honour,  and  delicate 
feeling,  old  Winterton  talked  of,  that  cannot  bear  a glance 
at  the  trial  ? — Delicate!  had  I been  born  under  a throttling 
planet,  I had  never  survived  this  collaring.  This  may  be 
guilt.  If  so — well,  what  have  I to  do  with  the  knowledge 
onT — what  could  I do  ? cut  off  my  benefactor  ! who  gives 
me  bread ! who  is  respected  for  his  virtues,  pitied  for  his 
misfortunes,  loved  by  his  family,  blessed  by  the  poor! 
Pooh  ! he  is  innocent.  This  is  his  pride  and  shame.  He 
was  acquitted — thousands  witnessed  it — thousands  re- 
joiced at  it — thousands — eh  ? the  key  left  in  the  iron 
chest!  Circumstance  and  mystery  tempt  me  at  every 
turn.  Ought  I — no  matter.  These  are  no  common  in- 
citements, and  I submit  to  the  impulse.  It  opens  with  a 
spring  I see.  I tremble  in  every  joint,  {goes  to  the  chest) 

Enter  Sir  Edward  Mortimer,  r.  door. 

Mortimer.  I had  forgot  the  key  and — {sees  Wilford)  ha! 
by  hell  1 

{snatches  a pistol from  the  table.,  runs  up  to  him.,  and 
holds  it  to  his  head.  AYilford  on  his  knees.,  claps 
down  the  lid  of  the  chest  which  he  has  just  opened. 
After  an  apparent  struggle  of  mind.,  Mortimer 
throws  the  pistol  from  him) 

Begone  ! — Come  back. — Come  hither  to  me. 

Mark  me — I see  thou  dost  at  every  turn — 

And  I have  noted  thee,  too.  Thou  hast  found 
(I  know  not  how)  some  clue  to  my  disgrace  : — 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


35 


SC.  in.] 

Aye,  my  disgrace — we  must  not  mince  it  now — 
Public  dishonour ! — trod  on ! — buffeted  ! 

Then  tried  as  the  foul  demon  who  had  foiUd 
My  manly  means  of  vengeance.  Anguish  gnaws  me: 
Mountains  of  shame  are  piled  upon  me ! — Me, 

Who  have  made  Fame  my  idol.  'Twas  enough ! 

But  something  must  be  superadded.  You, — 

A worm,  a viper  I have  warm’d,  must  plant, 

In  venom’ d sport,  your  sting  into  my  wounds, 

Too  tender  e’en  for  tenderness  to  touch, 

And  work  me  into  madness.  Thou  wouldst  question 
My  very — Slave  ! — my  very  innocence  ! 

Ne’er  doubted  yet  by  judges  or  arraigners. 

Wretch  ! you  have  wrung  this  from  me.  Be  content ; 
I am  sunk  low  enough. 

WiLFORD.  {returning  the  key)  Oh,  sir  ! I ever 
Honour’d  and  lov’d  ycu.  But  I merit  all. 

My  passions  hurried  me  I know  not  whither. 

Do  with  me  as  you  please,  my  kind,  wrong’d  master! 

Discard  me — thrust  me  forth — nay,  kill  me 

Mortimer.  Kill  you ! 

WiLFORD.  I know  not  what  T say.  I know  but  this, 

That  I would  die  to  serve  you. 

Enter  Gregory,  r.  door. 

Gregory.  Sir,  your  brother 

Is  just  alighted  at  the  gate. 

Mortimer.  My  brother  1 

He  could  not  time  it  worse.  Wilford,  remember. 
Come,  shew  me  to  him. 

Exit  loith  Gregory,  r.  door. 
Wilford.  Remember  ! I shall  never  while  I live  forget 
it : nay,  I shall  never  while  I live  forgive  myself.  My 
knees  knock  together  still,  and  the  cold  drops  stand  on 
my  forehead  like  rain  water  on  a penthouse. 

Enter  Barbara,  l.  door. 

Barbara.  Wilford ! 

Wilford.  Eh,  Barbara!  how  earnest  thou  here? 
Barbara.  With  my  father,  who  waits  below  to  see  Sir 
Edward. 


36  THE  IRON  CHESr  [act  I. 

WiLFORD.  He he  is  busied ; he  cannot  see  him  now. 

He  is  with  his  brother. 

Barbara.  Troth,  I am  sorry  for  it.  My  poor  father^s 
heart  is  bursting  with  gratitude,  and  he  would  fain  ease  it 
by  pouring  out  his  thanks  to  his  benefactor.  Oh,  Wilford, 
yours  is  a happy  lot  to  have  such  a master  as  Sir  Edward. 

Wilford.  Happy?  Oh,  yes — I— I am  very  happy. 

Barbara.  Mercy  ! has  any  ill  befallen  you  ? 

Wilford.  No,  nothing.  ^Tis  all  my  happiness.  My 
happiness  is  like  your  father’s  gratitude,  Barbara  ; and  at 
times  it  goes  near  to  choke  me. 

Barbara.  Nay,  I’m  sure  there’s  more  in  this.  Bless 
me,  you  look  pale!  I couldn’t  bear  to  see  you  ill  or 
uneasy,  Wilford. 

AVilforb.  Couldn’t  you,  Barbara.  AVell,  well,  I shall 
be  better  presently.  ’Tis  nothing  of  import. 

Barbara.  Trust  me,  I hope  not. 

AVilford.  AA'ell,  question  me  no  more  on’t  now,  I be- 
^ech  you,  Barbara. 

Barbara.  Believe  me,  I would  not  question  you  but  to 
console  you,  Wilford.  I would  scorn  to  pry  into  any 
one’s  grief,  much  more  yours,  AA^ilford,  to  satisfy  a busy 
curiosity ; though  I am  told  there  are  such  in  the  world 
who  would. 

AVilford.  I — I am  afraid  there  are,  Barbara.  But 
come,  no  more  of  this.  ’Tis  a passing  cloud  on  my 
spirits,  and  will  soon  blow  over. 

Barbara.  Ah ! could  I govern  your  fortunes,  foul 
weather  should  ne’er  harm  you. 

Wilford.  Should  not  it,  sweet ! Kiss  me.  (Aj/sses  Aer) 
The  lips  of  a woman  are  a sovereign  cordial  for  melan- 
choly. 

Duet  {often  omitted) — Wilford  and  Barbara. 

Wilford.  Sweet  little  Barbara,  when  you  are  advancing,  . 

Sweet  little  Barbara,  my  cares  you  remove. 
Barbara.  Poor  little  Barbara  can  feel  her  heart  dancing, 
AVhen  little  Baruara  is  met  by  her  love. 
AVilford.  When  I am  grieved,  love,  oh,  what  would  you 
say  ? 


«C.  III.] 
Barbara. 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


37 


Tattle  to  you,  love, 

And  prattle  to  you,  love. 

And  laugli  your  grief  and  care  away. 
WiLFORD.  Sweet  little  Barbara,  &c. 

Barbara.  Poor  little  Barbara,  &c. 


WlLFORD. 

Barbara. 

WlLFORD. 

Barbara. 

WlLFORD. 

Barbara. 


Yet,  dearest  Barbara,  look  all  througli  the  nation ; 

Care,  soon  or  late,  my  love,  is  every  man\s  lot. 
Sorrow  and  melancholy,  grief  and  vexation, 
When  we  are  young  and  jolly,  soon  is  forgot. 
When  we  grow  old,  love ! then  what  will 
you  say  ? 

Tattle  to  you,  love. 

And  prattle  to  you,  love. 

And  laugh  your  care  and  grief  away. 

Sweet  little  Barbara,  &c. 
Poor  little  Barbara,  &c. 

Exeunt  r.  door. 


END  OP  ACT  FIRST.— (45  mhiutes) 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — The  New  Forest  {Second  grooves) 

Enter  Armstrong  and  Orson,  r.  u.  e. 

Armstrong.  Go  to ; I tell  thee,  Orson  (as  I have  told 
thee  more  than  once)  that  thou  art  too  sanguinary. 

Orson.  And  I tell  you.  Captain  Armstrong — but  always 
under  favour,  you  being  our  leader — you  are  too  humane. 

Armstrong.  Humanity  is  scarcely  counted  a fault : if 
so,  ^tis  a fault  on  the  right  side. 

Orson.  Umph  1 perhaps  not  with  us.  We  are  robbers. 

Armstrong.  And  why  should  robbers  lack  humanity  ? 
They  who  plunder  most  respect  it  as  a virtue,  and  make  a 
.shew  on’t  to  gild  their  vices.  Lawyers,  physicians, 
placemen,  all — all  plunder  and  slay,  but  all  pretend  to 
humanity. 

Orson.  They  are  regulars,  and  plunder  bj  lice  nee. 

D 


38  THE  IRON  CHEST.  [ACT  II. 

Armstrong.  Then  let  us  quacks  set  the  regulars  a 
better  example. 

Orson.  Tliis  humanity,  captain,  is  a high  horse  you  are 
ever  bestride  upon.  Some  day,  mark  my  word,  hell 
fling  you. 

Armstrong.  Cruelty  is  a more  dangerous  beast . — 
When  the  rider’s  thrown,  his  brains  are  kicked  out,  and 
no  one  pities  him. 

Orson.  Like  enough ; but  your  tough  horseman,  who 
ventures  boldly,  is  never  dismounted.  When  I am  en- 
gaged in  a desperate  chase  (as  we  are,  captain,)  I stick  at 
nothing.  I hate  milk  sops. 

Armstrong.  And  love  mutiny.  Take  heed,  Orson ; I 
have  before  cautioned  you  not  to  glance  at  me. 

Orson.  I say  nothing  : but  if  some  escape  to  inform 
against  us,  whom  we  have  robbed,  ’tis  none  of  my  fault. 
Dead  men  tell  no  tales. 

Armstrong.  Wretch ! Speak  that  again,  and  you  shall 
tell  none,  {holds  a carbine  to  his  head) 

Orson.  Flii^sh  away ! I don’t  fear  death. 

Armstrong.  More  shame  to  thee ; for  thou  art  unfit  to 
meet  it. 

Orson.  I know  my  trade.  I set  powder,  ball,  and  rope, 
at  defiance. 

Armstrong.  Brute  ! You  mistake  headstrong  insensi- 
bility for  courage.  Do  not  mistake  my  horror  of  it  for 
cowardice  : for  I,  who  shudder  at  cruelty,  will  fell  your 
boldness  to  the  earth,  when  I see  you  practise  it.  Submit. 

Orson.  I do.  I know  not  what  ’tis,  but  I have  told 
you,  often,  that  there  is  something  about  you  awes  me.  I 
cannot  tell — I could  kill  twenty  to  your  one. 

Armstrong.  There  ’tis. — Thou  wouldst  dart  upon  the 
weak,  unguarded  man,  like  a tiger.  A ferocious  animal, 
whether  crawling  or  erect,  ever  slinks  from  fair  opposition. 

Orson.  My  courage  was  never  yet  doubted,  captain. 

Armstrong.  Your  nerves,  fool.  Thou  art  a mere  ma- 
chine. Could  I but  give  it  motion,  I would  take  an  oak 
from  the  forest,  here,  clap  a flint  into  it  for  heart,  and 
make  as  bold  a fellow  as  thou  art.  Listen  to  my  orders. 

Orson.  I obey. 

Armstrong.  Get  thee  to  our  den.  {ci'osses^  r.)  Put  on 


THE  IKON  CHEST. 


39 


sc.  I.] 

thy  disguise  ; then  hie  thee  to  the  market -town  for  provi- 
sion for  our  company.  Here — here  is  part  of  the  spoil  we 
took  yesternight : see  you  bring  an  honest  account  of 
what  you  lay  out.  [giving  money) 

Orson.  My  honour  ! 

Armstrong.  Well,  I do  not  doubt  thee,  here.  Our 
profession  is  singular;  its  followers  do  not  cheat  one 
another.  You  will  not  be  back  till  dusk.  See  you  fall 
not  on  any  poor  straggling  peasant,  as  you  return. 

Orson.  I would  fain  encounter  the  solitary  man,  who  is 
sometimes  wandering  by  night,  about  the  forest.  He  is 
rich. 

Armstrong.  Not  for  your  life.  ^Tis  Sir  Edward  Mor- 
timer, the  head  keeper.  Touch  him  not ; 'tis  too  near 
home.  Besides,  he  is  no  object  for  plunder.  I have 
watch’d  him,  at  midnight,  stealing  from  his  lodge,  to 
wander  like  one  crazed.  He  is  good,  too,  to  the  poor ; 
and  should  walk  unmolested  by  charity’s  charter.  ’Twere 
pity  that  he  who  administers  to  necessity,  all  day,  should 
be  rifled  by  necessity  at  night.  An  thou  shouldst  meet 
him,  I charge  thee  spare  him. 

Orson.  I must,  if  it  be  your  order.  This  sparing  doc- 
trine will  go  nigh,  at  last,  to  starve  all  tlie  thieves.  When 
a man  takes  to  the  trade  of  a wolf,  he  should  not  go  like 
a lamb  to  his  business.  Exit^  r. 

Armstrong.  This  fellow  is  a downright  villain : har- 
dened and  relentless.  I have  felt,  in  my  penury,  the  world 
trample  on  me.  It  has  driven  me  to  take  that,  desperately, 
which  wanting  I should  starve.  Death  ! my  spirit  cannot 
brook  to  see  a sleek  knave  walk  negligently  by  his  fellow 
in  misery,  and  suffer  him  to  rot,  I will  wrench  that  comfort 
from  him  which  he  will  not  bestow.  But  nature  puts  a 
bar ; let  liim  administer  to  my  wants,  and  pass  on : I have 
done  with  him. 

Song. — Armstrong. 

When  the  robber  his  victim  has  noted, 

When  the  freebooter  darts  on  his  prey, 

Let  humanity  spare  the  devoted — 

Let  mercy  forbid  him  to  slay. 


40 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  II. 


SincG  my  hope  is  by  penury  blighted, 
iNIy  sword  must  the  traveller  daunt ; 

I will  snatch  from  the  rich  man,  benighted, 

The  gold  he  denies  to  my  want. 

But  the  victim  when  once  I have  noted, 

At  my  foot  when  I look  on  my  prey, 

Let  humanity  spare  the  devoted — 

Let  mercy  forbid  me  to  slay. 

Scene  II. — The  Hall  in  Sir  Edward  Mortimer's  Lodge* 
Enter  Fitzharding,  l. 

Fitz.  Well,  business  must  be  minded  ; but  he  stays 
A tedious  time,  methinks.  You  fellow  ! 

To  Peter  crossing  the  hall^  l.  to  r. 

Peter.  Sir ! 

Fitz.  Whereas  Sir  Tristful ! where’s  Don  Melancholy? 

Peter.  Who,  sir? 

Fitz.  My  brother,  knave.  Sir  Edward  Mortimer. 

Peter.  He  was  with  you  but  now,  sir. 

Frrz.  Sir,  I thank  you— 

That’s  information.  Louts  and  serving- men 
Can  never  parley  straight.  Who  brought  in  my 
luggage  ? 

Peter.  It  was  not  I,  sir. 

Fitz.  There,  they  never  can ! 

Go  to  your  master  ; pray  him  to  dispatch 
His  household  work  ; tell  him  I hate  fat  folios. 
Plague  ! when  I cross  the  country,  here,  to  see  him^ 
He  leaves  me  ramm’d  into  an  elbow  chair, 

Witli  a huge,  heavy  book,  that  makes  me  nod. 

Then  tumbles  on  my  toes.  Tell  him,  dost  hear, 
Captain  Fitzharding’ s company  has  tired  me. 

Peter.  AVhose  company? 

Fitz.  My  own,  knave. 

Peter.  Sir,  I shall. 

Exit^  L. 

Fitz.  A hook  to  me’s  a sovereign  narcotic, 

A lump  of  opium,  every  line  a dose. 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


41 


sc.  II.] 

Edward  is  all  deep  reading  and  black  letter — 

He  shews  it  in  liis  very  cliin.  He  speaks 
Merc  dictionary,  and  he  pores  on  pages 
That  give  plain  men  the  headache.  ‘‘  Scarce  and 
curious,^’ 

Are  baits  his  learning  nibbles  at.  His  brain 
Is  crammed  with  mouldy  volumes,  cramp  and  useless, 
Like  a librarian’s  lumber  room.  Poor  fellow  ! 

Grief  will  do  much  1 well,  some  it  drives  to  reading. 

And  some  to  drinking  ; ’twill  do  much ! this  trial 

A fool  to  fret  so  for’t!  his  honour’s  clear. 

Tut ! I’m  a soldier — know  what  honour  is. 

Had  I been  slander’d,  and  a fair  court  martial 
Cleansed  me  from  calumny,  as  white  as  snow, 

I had  ne’er  moped,  and  fumed,  and  winced,  and  kicked. 
But  sat  down  heart  whole.  Plague  upon’t ! this  house 
Appears  the  very  cave  of  melancholy. 

Nay,  hold,  I lie ; here  comes  a petticoat. 

Enter  Blanch,  r.,  crosses  l. 

Od!  a rare  wench  ! This  is  the  best  edition 
In  Edward’s  whole  collection.  Here,  come  hither ! 
Let  me  peruse  you. 

Blanch.  Would  you  speak  with  me,  sir; 

Fitz.  Aye,  child.  I’m  going  now  to  read  you. 

Blanch.  Read  me ! 

You’ll  find  me  full  of  errors,  sir. 

Fitz.  No  matter. 

Come  nearer,  child : I cannot  see  to  read 
At  such  a distance. 

Blanch.  You  had  better,  sir. 

Put  on  your  spectacles. 

Fitz.  Aye,  there  she  has  me  ! 

A plague  upon  old  Time ! old  scythe  and  hour  glass 
Has  set  his  mark  upon  me.  Harkye,  child  : 

You  do  not  know  me.  You  and  I must  have 
Better  acquaintance. 

Blanch.  0,  I’ve  heard  of  you. 

You  are  Sir  Edward’s  kinsman,  sir — his  brother. 
Fitz.  Aye — Ids  half  brother — by  the  mother’s  side — 

His  elder  brother. 


42 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  II. 


Blanch.  Yes  sir,  I see  that. 

Fitz.  This  gipsy’s  tongue  is  like  her  eye  : I know  not 
Which  is  the  sharpest.  Tell  me  what’s  your  name. 
Blanch.  My  name  is  Blanch,  sir,  born  here,  in  the  forest. 
Fitz.  Sbud ! I must  be  a keeper  in  this  forest. 

Whither  art  going,  sweet  one  ? 

Blanch.  Home,  sir. 

Fitz.  Home ! 

Why  is  not  this  thy  home  ? 

Blanch.  No,  sir ; I live 

Some  half  mile  hence — with  Madam  Helen,  sir. 

I brought  a letter  from  her,  to  Sir  Edward. 

Fitz.  Odso,  with  Helen!  So,  with  her!  the  object 
Of  my  grave  brother’s  groaning  passion.  Plague  ! 

I would  ’twere  in  the  house.  I do  not  like 
Your  rheumatic,  October  assignations, 

Under  an  elm,  by  moonlight.  This  will  end 
In  flannels  and  seiatica.  My  passion 
Is  not  Arcadian.  Tell  me,  pretty  one. 

Shall  I walk  with  you,  home  ? 

Blanch.  No,  sir,  I thank  you, 

It  would  fatigue  you,  sadly. 

Fitz.  Fatigue  me  ! 

Oons ! this  wild  forest  filly,  here,  would  make  me 
Grandfather  to  Methusaleh.  Look  here — 

Here  is  a purse  of  money. 

Blanch.  0,  the  father  I 

AVhat  will  you  give  me  any  ? 

Fitz.  Gold  I find 

The  universal  key  ; the  passe  par  tout 
It  will  unlock  a forest  maiden’s  heart. 

As  easy  as  a politician’s.  Here  ; 

Here  are  two  pieces,  rose-bud.  Buy  a top-knot; 
Make  thyself  happy  with  them. 

Blanch,  That  I will. 

The  poor  old  woman,  northward  of  the  lodge. 

Lies  sick  in  bed.  I’ll  take  her  this,  poor  soul. 

To  comfort  her. 

Fitz.  Hold ! — hey  the  devil ! — hold. 

This  was  not  meant  to  comfort  an  old  woman. 
Blanch.  Why,  wouldn’t  you  relieve  her,  sir? 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


43 


SC.  II.] 

Fitz.  Um  ? — yes : — 

But — pshaw  ! pooh,  prithee — there^s  a time  for 
things. 

Why  tell  me  of  her  now, — of  an  old  fool, — 

Of  comforting  the  aged,  now  ? 

Blanch.  I thought 

That  you  might  have  a fellow  feeling,  sir. 

Fitz.  This  little  pastoral  deviTs  laughing  at  me  ! 

Oons  ! come  and  kiss  me,  jade.  I am  a soldier, 

And  Justice  of  Peace. 

Blanch.  Then  shame  upon  you  ! 

Your  double  calling  might  have  taught  you  better. 

I see  your  drift  now.  Take  your  dirt  again, 

(throws  down  the  money) 

Good  Captain- Justice  ! — Stoop  for  it, — and  think 
How  an  old  soldier,  and  a justice,  looks, 

When  he  is  picking  up  the  bribes  he  offers. 

To  injure  the  helpless,  the  poor,  and  innocent, 

He  should  protect.  Exit^  l 

Fitz.  I warrant  me, 

Could  I but  see  my  face,  now,  in  a glass, 

That  I look  wond’rous  sheepish.  I’m  ashamed 
To  pick  up  the  two  pieces.  Let  them  lie. 

I would  not  wrong  the  innocent ; — good  reason  ; — 
There  be  so  few  that  are  so  : — she  is  honest ; 
must  make  reparation.  Odso  ! WilfordI 

Enter  Wilford,  l. 

How  fares  it,  boy? 

Wilford.  I thank  you,  sir.  I hope  you  have  enjoy’d 
Your  health,  these  three  months  past,  since  last  you 
honour’d  us 

With  your  good  presence,  at  the  lodge. 

Fitz.  Indifferent. 

Some  cramps  and  shooting  pains,  boy.  I have  dropt 
Some  cash  here,  but  I am  afraid  to  bend 
To  pick  it  up  again,  lest  it  should  give  me 
An  awkward  twinge.  Stoop  for  it,  honest  Wilford. 
There’s  a good  lad! 

Wilford.  Right  willingly,  sir.  (picks  up  the  money ^ k.) 
Fitz.  So  ! 


44 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  lU 

The  soldier  and  the  justice  save  their  blushes. 

Now,  carry  it,  I prithee,  at  your  leisure, 

To  an  old  gossip,  near  the  lodge  here — northward— 
Vwe  heard  of  her — she^s  bed-ridden,  and  sick. 

You  need  not  say  who  sent  you. 

IYilford.  I conceive. 

^Tis  private  bounty  ; that^s  true  charity. 

Fitz.  Nay,  pish  ! — my  charity  ! 

WiLFORD.  Nay,  I could  swear 

’Th  not  the  first  time  you  have  offered  this 
In  secret. 

Fitz.  Um ! — why  no  ; not  quite  the  first. 

But  tell  me,  lad,  how  jogs  the  world  here,  eh  ? 

In  Rueful  Castle.  Harkye,  Wilford,  harkye ! 
Thou^rt  a sly  rogue ! What,  you  could  never  tell  me 
Of  Helenas  waiting  maid ; the  little  cherry ; — 

Of plague  upon  her  name  ! — of 

Wilford.  Blanch,  sir? 

Fitz.  Blanch ; 

That’s  it ; the  forest  fairy.  You  and  I 

Must  have  some  talk  about  her come  hither. 

(the^  retire  to  the  hack^  L.) 

Enter  Sir  Edward  Mortimer,  r. 

Mortimer.  Now  for  my  brother,  and — ha  ! Wilford  with 
him ! 

That  imp  is  made  my  scourge.  They  wliisper  too. 
Oli^  I had  rather  court  the  thunder -bolt. 

To  melt  my  bones,  and  pound  me  to  a mass, 

Thau  suffer  this  vile  canker  to  corrode  me. 

Wilford ! 

WiLFOKD.  Who  calls  ? — eh  ! — ’tis  Sir  Edward. 

[comes  centre) 

Fitz.  Mum! 

Mortimer.  I seem  to  interrupt  you. 

Wilford.  [earnestly)  No  indeed. 

No,  on  my  life,  sir ; — we  were  only  talking 
Of 

Fitz.  Hold  your  tongue.  Oons  ! boy,  you  must  not  tell. 
Mortimer.  Not ! 

Fitz.  Not  I no,  to  be  sure  : — wliy,  ’tis  a secret. 


sc.  II.]  THE  IRON  CHEST.  45 

WiLFORD.  You  shall  know  all,  sir. — Twas  a trifle — ^no- 
thing— 

In  faith,  you  shall  know  all. 

Fitz.  In  faith,  you  lie. 

Be  satisfied,  good  Edward  : — ^tis  a toy. — (crosseSyC.y 
But,  of  all  men,  I would  not  have  thee  know  on^t 
It  is  a tender  subject. 

Mortimer.  Aye,  indeed. 

Fitz.  May  not  I have  my  secret  ? Oons  ! good  brother. 
What  would  you  say,  now,  should  a meddling  knave 
Busy  his  brains  with  matters,  though  but  trivial. 
Which  concern  you  alone? 

Mortimer.  I’d  have  him  rot : 

Die  piecemeal ; pine  ; moulder  in  misery. 

Agent,  and  sacrifice  to  heaven’s  wrath. 

When  castigating  plagues  are  hurl’d  on  man. 

Stands  lean,  and  lynx-eyed  Curiosity, 

Watching  his  neighbour’s  soul.  Sleepless  himself, 

To  banish  sleep  from  others.  Like  a leech. 

Sucking  the  blood- drops  from  a care-worn  heart, 

He  gorges  on’t — then  renders  up  his  food. 

To  nourish  Calumny,  his  foul-lung’ d mate, 

Who  carries  Rumour’s  trumpet,  and  whose  breath,, 
Infecting  the  wide  surface  of  the  world. 

Strikes  pestilence  and  blight.  Oh,  fie  on’t ! fie  ! 
Whip  me  the  curious  wretch  from  pole  to  pole ! 

Who  writhes  in  fire,  and  scorches  all  around  him, 

A victim  making  victims  ! 

Fitz.  By  the  mass, 

’Twere  a sound  whipping  that,  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
From  constable  to  constable  might  serve. 

Mortimer.  Your  pardon,  brother; 

I had  forgot.  Wilford,  I’ve  business  for  you. 

Wait  for  me — aye — an  hour  after  dinner. 

Wait  for  me  in  the  library.  ^ 

Wilford.  The  library  ! — 

I sicken  at  the  sound,  [aside)  AVait  there  for  you — 
and — 

Captain  Fitzliarding,  sir? 

Mortimer.  For  me,  alone. 

Wilford.  Alone,  sir ! 


46 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  II. 


Mortimer.  Yes, — begone  ! 

WiLFORD.  I shall,  sir — {crosses^  R.)  but^ 

If  I have  ever  breath’d  a syllable 

That  might  displease  you,  may 

Mortimer.  Fool ! breathe  no  more. 

WiLFORD.  I’m  dumb. 

I’d  rather  step  into  a lion’s  den, 

Than  meet  him  in  the  library  ! — I go,  sir.  Exit^  R. 

Fitz.  Brother,  you  are  too  harsh  with  that  poor  boy. 
Mortimer.  Brother,  a man  must  rule  his  family 
In  his  own  way. 

Fitz.  Well,  well,  well — don’t  be  touchy. 

I speak  not  to  offend : I only  speak 
On  a friend’s  privilege.  The  poor  are  men, 

And  have  their  feelings,  brother. 

Mortimer.  So  have  I ! 

Fitz.  One  of  the  best  that  we  can  shew,  believe  me. 

Is  mildness  to  a servant.  Servants,  brother, 

Are  born  with  fortune’s  yoke  about  their  necks ; 

And  that  is  galling  in  itself  enough  ; 

We  should  not  goad  them  under  it.  The  master 
Should  rather  cheer  them  in  their  servitude, 

With  kindly  words. 

Mortimer.  Brother,  your  hand.  You  have  a gentle  na- 
ture— 

May  no  mischance  e’er  ruffle  it,  my  brother? 

I’ve  known  thee  from  my  infancy,  old  soldier ; 

And  never  did  I know — I do  not  flatter — 

A heart  more  stout,  more  cased  with  hardy  manhood, 
More  full  of  milk  within.  Trust  me,  dear  friend, 

If  admiration  of  thy  charity 
May  argue  charity  in  the  admirer, 

I am  not  destitute. 

Fitz.  You — I have  seen  you 

Sometimes  o’erflow  with  it. 

Mortimer.  And  what  avails  it? 

Honour  has  been  my  theme,  good  will  to  man 
My  study.  I have  labour’d  for  a name 
As  white  as  mountain  snow  ; dazzling,  and  specldess 
Shame  on’t!  ’tis  blurred  with  blots!  Fate,  like 
mildew, 


THE  IKON  CHEST. 


47 


SC.  II.J 

Kuins  the  virtuous  harvest  I would  reap, 

And  all  my  crop  is  weeds,  {crosses,  l.) 

Fitz.  Why,  how  now,  brother  ! 

This  is  all  spleen.  You  mope  yourself  too  much. 

In  this  dull  forest  here.  Twenty  blue  devils 
Are  dancing  jigs,  and  hornpipes,  in  your  brains. 

Fie,  fie  ! be  more  a man.  Come,  come,  rouse  you! 

I came  on  purpose,  thirty  miles  from  home. 

To  jog  your  spirits.  Prithee,  now  be  gay  ! 

And,  prithee,  too,  be  kind  to  my  young  favourite ! 

To  Wilford,  there. 

Mortimer.  Well,  well;  I hope  I have  been. 

Fitz.  No  doubt,  in  actions : — but  in  words,  and  looks. — 
A.  rugged  look\s  a damper  to  a greenhorn. 

I watched  him,  now,  when  you  frown’d  angerly ; 

And  he  betray’d 

Mortimer.  Betray’d ! 

Fitz.  Ten  thousand  fears. 

Mortimer.  Oh ! 

Fitz.  The  poor  devil  couldn’t  shew  more  scared 

Had  you  e’en  held  a pistol  to  his  head.  (MoRTiMERstor^^) 
Why  hey-day!  what’s  the  matter? 

Mortimer.  Brother  I 

Question  me  not ; my  nerves  are  aspen-like  : 

The  slightest  breath  will  shake  ’em.  Come,  good 
brother. 

Fitz.  You’ll  promise  to  be  gay? 

'Mortimer.  I’ll  do  my  best. 

Fitz.  AVhy  that’s  well  said!  A man  can  do  no  more. 

Od ! I believe  my  rattling  talk  has  given  you 
A stir  already. 

Mortimer.  That  it  has  indeed  ! Come,  brother ! 

Exeunt  r. 

Scene  III. — Lad^  Helenas  House. 

Enter  Helen,  r.,  and  Samson,  l. 

Helen.  Are  you  he  that  wish  to  enter  in  my  service  ? 
Samson.  Yes,  so  please  you.  Madam  Helen,  for  want  of 
a,  better. 


48  THE  IRON  CHEST.  [ACT  II. 

TIelen.  Why,  I ‘have  seen  you  in  the  forest — at  Raw- 
bold’s  cottage.  He  is  your  father,  as  I think. 

Samson.  Yes,  so  please  you,  madam,  for  want  of  a better. 

Helen.  I fear  me  you  may  well  say  that.  Your  father, 
;as  I have  heard,  bears  an  ill  name  in  the  forest.. 

Samson.  x\las  ! madam,  he  is  obliged  to  bear  it,  for 
want  of  a better.  We  are  all  famish’d,  madam  : and  the 
naked  and  hungry  have  seldom  many  friends  to  speak 
well  of  them. 

Helen.  If  I should  hire  thee,  who  will  give  thee  a 
character  ? 

Samson.  My  father,  madam. 

Helen.  Why,  sirrah,  he  has  none  of  his  own. 

Samson.  The  more  fatherly  in  him,  madam,  to  give  his 
^son  what  he  has  need  of  for  himself.  But  a knave  is  often 
applied  to,  to  t^ouch  for  a good  servant’s  honesty.  I wdll 
serve  you  as  faithfully  as  your  last  footman  ; who,  I have 
heard,  ran  away  this  morning, 

Helen.  Truly,  he  did  so. 

Samson.  I was  told  on’t,  some  half-hour  ago  ; and  ran, 
hungrily,  hither,  to  offer  myself.  So,  please  you,  let  not 
poverty  stand  in  the  way  of  my  preferment. 

Helen.  Should  I entertain  you,  what  could  you  do  to 
make  yourself  useful  ? 

Samson.  Any  thing.  I can  wire  hares,  snare  partridges, 
shoot  a buck,  and  smuggle  brandy,  for  you,  madam. 

Helen.  Fie  on  you  knave  ! ’Twere  fitter  to  turn  you 
over  to  the  verderors  of  the  forest,  for  punishment,  than 
to  encourage  you  in  such  practices. 

Samson.  1 would  practise  any  thing  better,  that  might 
get  me  bread.  I would  scrape  trenchers,  fill  buckets,  and 
carry  a message.  What  can  a man  do  ! He  can’t  starve. 

Helen.  Well,  sirrah,  to  snatch  thee  from  evil,  I care 
not  if  I make  trial  of  thee. 

Samson.  No!  will  you? 

Helen.  Nineteen  in  twenty  might  question  my  prudence 
for  this : — ^but,  whatever  loss  I may  suffer  from  thy 
roguery,  the  thought  of  having  opened  a path  to  lead  a 
needy  wanderer  back  to  virtue  will  more  than  repay  me. 

Samson.  Oh,  bless  you,  lady  ! If  I do  not  prove  vir- 
tuous never  trust  in  man  more.  I am  overjoyed ! 


4SC.  III.]  THE  IRON  CHEST.  49 

Helen.  Get  thee  to  the  kitcheu.  You  will  fiijjd  a livery 
there  will  suit  you. 

Samson.  A livery!  oh,  the  father!  Virtuous  and  a 
livery,  all  in  a few  seconds ! Heaven  bless  you  i 
Helen.  Well,  get  you  to  your -work. 

Samson.  I go,  madam.  If  I break  any  thing  to-day, 
beseech  you  let  it  go  for  nothing  ; for  joy  makes  my  hand 
tremble.  Should  you  want  me,  please  to  cry  Samson,  and 
I am  with  you  in  a twinkling.  Heaven  bless  you  ! Here’s 
fortune ! Exit^  l. 

Helen.  Blanch  stays  a tedious  time.  Heaven  send 
Mortimer’s  health  be  not  worse ! He  is  sadly  altered 
since  we  came  to  the  forest.  I dreamed  last  night,  of  the 
fire  he  saved  me  from  ; and  I saw  him,  all  fresh,  in  manly 
bloom,  bearing  me  through  the  flames,  even  as  it  once 
happened. 

Enter  Blanch,  l. 

Helen.  How  now,  wench  ! You  have  almost  tired  my 
patience. 

Blanch.  And  my  own  legs,  madam.  If  the  old  footman 
had  not  made  so  much  use  of  his,  by  running  away,  they 
might  have  spared  mine. 

Helen.  Inform  me  of  Sir  Edward  Mortimer, 

Hast  seen  him  ? 

Blanch.  Yes,  I have,  madam. 

Helen.  Say ; tell  me  ; 

How  look’d  he?  how’s  his  health?  is  he  in  spirits? 
What  said  he,  Blanch  ? Will  he  be  here  to-day  ? 
Blanch.  A little  breath,  madam,  and  I will  answer  all, 
duly. 

Helen.  Oh  ! fie  upon  thee,  wench  ! 

These  interrogatories  should  be  answered 
Quicker  than  breath  can  utter  them. 

Blanch.  That’s  impossible,  lady. 

Helen.  Thou  would’ st  not  say  so  hadst  tliou  ever  loved. 
Love  has  a fleeter  messenger  than  speech, 

To  tell  love’s  meaning.  His  expresecs  post 
Upon  the  orbs  of  vision,  ere  the  tongue 
Can  shape  them  into  words.  A lover’s  look 
Is  his  heart’s  Mercury.  Oh,  the  eye’s- eloquence, 

E 


50  THE  IRON  CHEST.  [ACT  IT. 

Twin-born  with  tlionglit,  outstrips  the  tardy  voice, 
Far  swifter  than  the  nimble  lightning’s  fl^h 
The  sluggish  tliunder-peal  that  follows  it. 

Blanch.  I am  not  slvilhd  in  eye- talking,  madam.  I 
have  been  used  to  let  my  discourse  ride  upon  my  tongue, 
and,  I have  been  told,  ’twill  trot  at  a good  round  pace 
upon  occasion. 

IIelen.  Then  let  it  gallop,  now,  beseech  you,  wench. 

And  bring  me  news  of  Mortimer. 

Blanch.  Then,  madam,  I saw  Sir  Edward  in  his  library, 
and  delivered  your  letter.  He  will  be  here  either  in  the 
evening,  or  on  the  morrow  : ’tis  uncertain  which — for  his 
brother,  Captain  Fitzharding,  is  arrived,  on  a visit  to  him ; 
but  his  letter  may  chance  to  specify  further  particulars. 
Helen.  His  letter  ! Has  he  written  ? — fie  upon  thee ! 
Why  didst  not  give  it  me  at  once  ? Where  is  it  ? 
Thou  art  turn’d  dreamer,  wench. — Come  quickly. 

Blanch.  You  talked  to  me  so  much  of  reading  eyes, 
madam,  that  I even  forgot  the  letter.  Here  it  is. 

Helen.  Come  to  me,  shortly,  in  my  cabinet : 

I’ll  read  it  there. — I am  almost  unfit 
To  open  it.  I never  receive  his  letters 
But  my  hand  trembles.  Well,  I know  ’tis  silly  ; 
And  yet  I cannot  help  it.  I will  ring ; 

Then  come  to  me,  good  Blanch — not  yet.  My  Mortimer, 
Now  for  your  letter ! Exit^  r. 

Blanch.  I would  they  were  wedded  once,  and  all  this 
trembling  would  be  over.  I am  told  your  married  lady’s 
feelings  are  little  roused  in  reading  letters  from  a husband. 

Enter  Samson,  dressed  in  a livery^  l. 

Samson.  This  sudden  turn  of  fortune  might  puif  some 
men  up  with  pride.  I have  looked  in  the  glass  already : 
—and  if  ever  man  looked  braver  in  a glass  than  I,  I know 
nothing  of  finery,  [strutting  across  to  r.) 

Blanch.  Hey-dey  ! who  have  we  here  ? 

Samson.  Oh,  lord  I this  is  the  maid. 1 mean  the 

waiting- woman.  I warrant  we  shall  be  rare  company,  in 
a long  winter’s  evening. 

Blanch.  Why,  who  are  you  ? 

Samson.  I’m  your  fellow-servant : — the  new  comer. 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


SC.  III.] 


51 


The  last  footman  cast  his  skin  in  the  pantry  this  morning, 
and  I have  crept  into  it. 

Blanch.  AVhy,  sure,  it  cannot  be  ! — Now  I look  upon 
you  agam,  you  are  Samson  Rawbold — old  Rawbold’s  son, 
of  the  forest  here. 

Samson.  The  same ; I am  not  like  some  upstarts  ; when 
I am  prosperous,  I do  not  turn  my  back  on  my  poor  re- 
lations. 

Blanch.  What,  has  my  lady  hired  thee  ? 

Samson.  She  has  taken  me,  like  a pad  nag,  upon  trial. 

Blanch.  I suspect  you  will  play  her  a jade's  trick,  and 
stumble  in  your  probation.  You  have  been  caught  trip- 
ping, ere  now. 

Samson.  An  I do  not  give  content,  'tis  none  of  my  fault. 
A man's  qualities  cannot  come  out  all  at  once.  I wish 
you  would  teach  me  a little  how  to  lay  a cloth. 

Blanch.  You  are  well  qualified  for  your  office  truly, 
not  to  know  that. 

Samson.  To  say  truth,  we  had  little  practice  that  way 
at  home.  We  stood  not  upon  forms.  We  had  sometimes 
no  cloth  for  a dinner. 

Blanch.  And,  sometimes,  no  dinner  for  a cloth. 

Samson.  Just  so.  We  had  little  order  in  our  family. 

Blanch.  Well,  I will  instruct  you. 

Samson.  That's  kind.  I will  be  grateful.  They  tell 
me  I have  learnt  nothing  but  wickedness  yet : but  I will 
instruct  you  in  any  thing  I know,  in  return. 

Blanch.  There  I have  no  mind  to  become  your  scholar. 
But  be  steady  in  your  service,  and  you  may  outlive  your 
beggary,  and  grow  into  respect.  Exit^  r. 

Samson.  Nay,  an  riches  rain  upon  me,  respect  will  grow 
of  course.  I never  knew  a rich  man  yet  who  wanted  fol- 
lowers to  pull  off  their  caps  to  him. 

Song, — Samson. 

A traveller  stopped  at  a widow's  gate  ; 

She  kept  an  inn,  and  he  wanted  to  bait ; — 

But  the  landlady  slighted  her  guest : 

For  when  Nature  was  making  an  ugly  race. 

She  certainly  moulded  this  traveller's  face 
As  a sample  for  the  rest. 


U.  or  ILL  LIB. 


52 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  II. 

The  chamber- maid^s  sides  they  were  ready  to  crack, 

When  she  saw  his  queer  nose,  and  the  hump  at  his  back 
A hump  isn’t  handsome,  no  doubt — 

And  though  ’tis  confess'd  that  the  prejudice  goes, 

Very  strongly,  in  favour  of  wearing  a nose, 

Yet  a nose  shouldn’t  look  like  a snout 

A bag  full  of  gold  on  the  table  he  laid — 

’T  had  a wond’rous  effect  on  the  widow  and  maid ! 

And  they  quickly  grew  marvellous  civil. 

The  money  immediately  alter’d  the  case  ; 

They  were  charm’d  with  hishump,  and  his  snout,  andhisface,. 
Though  he  still  might  have  frighted  the  devil. 

He  paid  like  a prince — gave  the  widow  a smack — 

Then  dop’d  on  his  horse,  at  the  door,  like  a sack ; 

While  the  landlady,  touching  the  chink. 

Cried — Sir,  should  you  travel  this  country  again, 

I heartily  hope  that  the  sweetest  of  men 
“ Will  stop  at  the  widow’s  to  drink.” 

Exit^ 

Scene  IV. — The  Library ; key  in  r.  door^  and  key  m 
L.  door. 

WiLFORD,  discovered. 

WiLFORD.  I would  Sir  Edward  were  come ! The  dread 
jf  a fearful  encounter  is  often  as  terrible  as  the  encounter 
itself.  Yet  my  encounters  with  him  of  late  are  no  trifles. 
Pie’s  coming. — No.  The  old  wainscot  cracks,  and  frightens 
me  out  of  my  wits : and,  I verily  believe,  the  great  folio 
dropt  on  my  head,  just  now,  from  the  shelf,  on  purpose  to 
increase  my  terrors. 

Enter  Sir  Edward  Mortimer,  at  r.  door  of  the  library^ 
which  he  locks  after  him.  Wilford  turns  round  on  hear-^ 
ing  him  shut  it. 

Wilford.  What’s  that? — ’Tis  he  himself ! Mercy  on 
me  ! he  has  locked  the  door  ! — What  is  going  to  become* 
of  me  ! 

Mortimer.  Wilford ! — Is  no  one  in  the  picture  gallery? 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


53 


€.  IV.] 

WiLFORD.  No — not  a soul,  sir — Not  a human  soul. — 
None  within  hearing,  if  I were  to  call 
Ever  so  loud. 

Mortimer,  Lock  yonder  door.  {j)ointing  to  l.  door) 

WiLFORD.  The  door,  sir! 

Mortimer.  Do  as  I bid  you. 

WiLFORD.  What,  sir!  Lock 

(Mortimer  waves  with  his  hand^  and  brings  down 
chair  on  which^  he  sits) 

I shall,  sir.  {going  to  the  l.  door  and  locking  it) 
Mortimer.  Wilford,  approach  me. — What  am  1 to  say 
For  aiming  at  your  life  ! —Do  you  not  scorn  me, 
Despise  me  for  it  ? 

Wilford.  I!  oh,  sir 

Mortimer.  You  must. 

For  I am  singled  from  the  herd  of  men, 

A vile,  heart-broken  wretch ! 

Wilford.  Indeed,  indeed,  sir, 

You  deeply  wrong  yourself.  Your  equal’s  love, 

The  poor  man^s  prayer,  the  orphan’s  tear  of  gratitude 
All  follow  you — and  I — I owe  you  all ! 

I am  most  bound  to  bless  you. 

Mortimer.  Mark  me,  Wilford, — 

I know  the  value  of  the  orphan’s  tear, 

The  poor  man’s  prayer,  respect  from  the  respected ; 

I feel  to  merit,  these,  and  to  obtain  them. 

Is  to  taste  here,  below,  that  thrilling  cordial 
Which  the  remunerating  angel  draws, 

Prom  the  eternal  fountains  of  delight. 

To  pour  on  blessed  souls,  that  enter  heaven, 

I feel  this — I — How  must  my  nature,  then, 

Revolt  at  him  who  seeks  to  stain  his  hand 
In  human  blood  ? — and  yet  it  seems,  this  day, 

I sought  your  life. — Oh  ! I have  suffer’d  madness — 
None  know  my  tortures — pangs  ! — but  I can  end  them: 
End  them  as  far  as  appertains  to  thee. — 

I have  resolved  it.  — Hell-born  struggles  tear  me  ! 
But  I have  ponder’d  on’t, — and  I must  trust  thee. — 

Wilford.  Your  confidence  shall  not  be 

Mortimer.  You  must  swear. 

Wilford.  Swear,  sir! — will  nothing  but  an  oatli,  then — 


54 


THE  IRON  CHEST, 


[act  II. 


Mortimer,  (rises  and  seizes  Wilford^s  arm)  Listen. 

May  all  the  ills  that  wait  on  frail  humanity 
Be  doubled  on  your  head,  if  you  disclose 
My  fatal  secret ! May  your  body  turn 
Most  lazar-like  and  loathsome  ; and  your  mind 
More  loathsome  than  your  body  ! May  those  fiends 
Who  strangle  babes,  for  very  wantonness. 

Shrink  back,  and  shudder  at  your  monstrous  crimes, 
And  shrinking,  curse  you ! Palsies  strike  your  youth ! 
And  the  sharp  terrors  of  a guilty  mind 
Poison  your  aged  days ; while  all  your  nights. 

As  on  the  earth  you  lay  your  houseless  head. 

Out- horror  horror  ! May  you  quit  the  world 
Abhor’ d,  self- hated,  hopeless  for  the  next. 

Your  life  a burthen,  and  your  death  a fear! 

WiLFORD.  For  mercy’s  sake,  forbear ! you  terrify  me  ! 
Mortimer.  Hope  this  may  fall  upon  thee ; — swear  thou 
hopest  it. 

By  every  attribute  which  heaven,  earth,  hell. 

Can  lend,  to  bind,  and  strengthen  conjuration. 

If  thou  betray’ st  me. 


Well  I (hesitating) 

No  retreating  ! 


WiLFORD. 

Mortimer. 


WiLFORD.  (after  a pause)  I swear,  by  all  the  ties  that  bind 
a man. 

Divine,  or  human, — never  to  divulge ! 

Mortimer.  Remember,  you  have  sought  this  secret: — Yes, 
Extorted  it.  I have  not  thrust  it  on  you. 

’Tis  big  with  danger  to  you ; and  to  me. 

While  I prepare  to  speak,  torment  unutterable. 
Know,  Wilford,  that — damnation  ! 

WiLFORD.  Dearest  sir! 

Collect  yourself.  This  shakes  you  horribly. 

You  had  this  trembling,  it  is  scarce  a week. 

At  Madam  Helen’s. 

Mortimer.  There  it  is. — Her  uncle  ! 

Wilford.  Her  uncle ! 

Mortimer.  Him.  She  knows  it  not— none 

know  it — 

You  are  the  first  ordained  to  hear  me  say, 

I am — his  murderer. 


THE  IRON  CHEST, 


55 


»C.  IV.] 


WiLFORD. 

Mortimer. 


0,  heaven ! 


His  assassin. 


WiLFORD.  What  you  that — mur — the  murder — I am 


choked ! 


Mortimer.  Honour,  thou  blood-stained  god!  at  whose 
red  altar 

Sit  war  and  homicide,  Oh,  to  what  madness 
Will  insult  drive  thy  votaries!  By  heaven  I 
In  the  workVs  range  there  does  not  breathe  a maa 
Whose  brutal  nature  I more  strove  to  soothe, 

With  long  forbearance,  kindness,  courtesy. 

Than  he  who  fell  by  me.  But  he  disgraced  me, 
Stained  me,— oh,  death,  and  shame! — the  world 
look’d  on, 

And  saw  this  sinewy  savage  strike  me  down ; 

Rain  blows  upon  me,  drag  me  to  and  fro. 

On  the  base  earth,  like  carrion.  Desperation, 

In  every  fibre  of  my  frame,  cried  vengeance  ! 

I left  the  room  which  he  had  quitted.  Chance, 
(Curse  on  the  chance!)  while  boiling  with  my  wrongs, 
Thrust  me  upon  him,  darkling,  in  the  street : — 

I stab’d  him  to  the  heart : — and  my  oppressor 
Roll’d,  lifeless,  at  my  foot,  {crosses,  l.) 

"WiLFORD.  Oh!  mercy  on  me! 

How  could  this  deed  be  cover’d ! 

Mortimer.  Would  you  think  it? 

E’en  at  the  moment  when  I gave  the  blow. 

Butcher’d  a fellow-creature  in  the  dark, 

I had  all  good  men’s  love.  But  my  disgrace. 

And  my  opponent’s  death,  thus  link’d  with  it. 
Demanded  notice  of  the  magistracy. 

They  summon’d  me,  as  friend  would  summon  friend, 
To  acts  of  import  and  communication. 

We  met : and  ’twas  resolv’d  to  stifle  rumour, 

To  put  me  on  my  trial.  No  accuser. 

No  evidence  appeared,  to  urge  it  on. 

Twas  meant  to  clear  my  fame. — How  clear  it,  then? 
How  cover  it  ? you  say.  Why,  by  a lie : 

Guilt’s  offspring,  and  its  guard.  I taught  this  breast. 
Which  Truth  once  made  her  throne,  to  forge  a lie; 
This  tongue  to  utter  it. — Rounded  a tale. 


56 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  II* 

Smooth  as  a seraph’s  song  from  Satan’s  mouth ; 

So  well  compacted,  that  the  o’er- throng’d  court 
Disturb’d  cool  Justice,  in  her  judgment- seat, 

By  shouting  ‘‘  Innocence !”  ere  I had  finished. 

The  court  enlarged  me ; and  the  giddy  rabble 
Bore  me,  in  triumph,  home,  {crosses^  r.)  Aye! — look 
upon  me. — 

I know  thy  sight  aches  at  me. 

WiLFORD.  Heaven  forgive  me  I 

I think  I love  you  still : — but  I am  young ; 

I know  not  what  to  say  : — it  may  be  wrong. — 
Indeed  I pity  you. 

Mortimer.  I disdain  all  pity — 

I ask  no  consolation.  Idle  boy  I 
Think’ st  thou  that  this  compulsive  confidence 
Was  given  to  move  thy  pity  ? Love  of  fame 
^or  still  I cling  to  it)  has  urged  me,  thus, 

To  quash  thy  curious  mischief  in  its  birth. 

Hurt  honour,  in  an  evil,  cursed  hour. 

Drove  me  to  murder — lying : — ’twould  again. 

My  honesty, — sweet  peace  of  mind, — all,  all! 

Are  barter’d  for  a name.  I will  maintain  it. 

Should  slander  whisper  o’er  my  sepulchre, 

And  my  soul’s  agency  survive  in  death, 

I could  embody  it  with  heaven’s  lightning, 

And  the  hot  shaft  of  my  insulted  spirit 

Should  strike  the  blaster  of  my  memory 

Dead  in  the  churchyard.  Boy,  I would  not  kill  thee : 

Thy  rashness  and  discernment  threaten’d  danger: 

To  check  them  there  was  no  way  left  but  this  : — 
Save  one — your  death : — you  shall  not  be  my  victim. 
WiLFORD.  My  death!  what  take  my  life  ? — my  life!  to  prop 
This  empty  honour. 

Mortimer.  Empty ! grovelling  fool ! 

WiLFORD.  I am  your  servant,  sir  : child  of  your  bounty ; 
And  know  my  obligation.  I have  been 
Too  curious,  haply ; ’tis  the  fault  of  youth. 

I ne’er  meant  injury  : if  it  would  serve  you, 

I would  lay  down  my  life  ; I’d  give  it  freely  : — 
Could  you,  then,  have  the  heart  to  rob  me  of  it  ? 
You  could  not ; — should  not. 


THE  lEON  CHEST. 


57 


sc.  IV.] 

Mortimer.  How  ! 

WiLFORD.  You  dare  not. 

Mortimer.  Dare  not! 

WiLFORD.  Some  hours  ago  you  durst  not.  Passion  moved 
you; 

Reflection  interposed,  and  held  your  arm. 

But,  should  reflection  prompt  you  to  attempt  it, 

My  innocence  would  give  me  strength  to  struggle, 
And  wrest  the  murderous  weapon  from  your  hand. 
How  would  you  look  to  find  a peasant  boy 
Return  the  knife  you  le veil’d  at  his  heart ; 

And  ask  you  which  in  heaven  would  shew  the  best, 
A rich  man’s  honour,  or  a poor  man’s  honesty? 
Mortimer.  ’Tis  plain  I dare  not  take  your  life.  To 
spare  it, 

I have  endanger’d  mine.  But  dread  my  power  ; — 
You  know  not  its  extent.  Be  warn’d  in  time : 

Trifle  not  with  my  feelings.  Listen,  sir  I 
Myriads  of  engines,  which  my  secret  working 
Can  rouse  to  action,  now  encircle  you. 

I speak  not  vaguely.  You  have  heard  my  principle  p, 
Have  heard,  already,  what  it  can  effect ; 

Be  cautious  how  you  thwart  it.  Shun  my  brother 
Your  ruin  hangs  upon  a thread : Provoke  me, 

And  it  shall  fall  upon  you.  Dare  to  make 
The  slightest  movement  to  awake  my  fears. 

And  the  gaunt  criminal,  naked  and  stake- tied, 

Left  on  the  heath,  to  blister  in  the  sun, 

^Till  lingering  death  shall  end  his  agony. 

Compared  to  thee,  shall  seem  more  enviable 
'Than  cherubs  to  the  damn’d. 

WiLFORD.  0,  misery! 

Discard  me,  sir ! I must  be  hateful  to  you. 

Banish  me  hence.  I will  be  mute  as  death ; 

But  let  me  quit  your  service. 

Mortimer.  Never. — Fool ! 

To  buy  this  secret,  you  have  sold  yourself. 

Your  movements,  eyes,  and,  most  of  all,  your  breath,, 
From  this  time  forth,  are  fetter’d  to  my  will. 

You  have  said,  truly : you  are  hateful  to  me  : — 

Yet  you  shall  feel  my  bounty  : — that  shall  flow. 


58 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  II* 

And  swell  your  fortunes  ; but  my  inmost  soul 
Will  yearn  with  loathing,  when — {knock  at  r.  door) 
hark  ! some  one  knocks  ! 

(WiLFORD  opens  the  door^  Winterton  comes  in) 
How  now,  Winterton? 

Did  you  knock  more  than  once  ? Speak — did  you 
listen — 

I mean,  good  Adam,  did  you  wait? — Aye,  wait 
Long  at  the  door,  here  ? 

Winter.  Bless  your  honour ! no. 

You  are  too  good  to  let  the  old  man  wait. 

Mortimer.  What,  then,  our  talk,  here — Wilford^s  here 
and  mine — 

Did  not  detain  you  at  the  door  ? — Ha ! — did  it  ? 
Winter.  Not  half  a second. 

Mortimer.  Oh ! — well,  what^s  the  matter? 

Winter.  Captain  Fitzharding,  sir,  entreats  your  company. 
IVe  placed  another  flaggon  on  the  table. 

Your  worship  knows  it. — Number  thirty-five 
The  supernaculum. 

Mortimer.  Well,  well — I come. 

What,  has  he  been  alone  ? 

Winter.  No — IVe  been  with  him. 

Od ! he's  a merry  man ! and  does  so  jest ! 

He  calls  me  first  of  men,  'cause  my  name's  Adam. 
Well ! 'tis  exceeding  pleasant,  by  St.  Tliomas  ! 
Mortimer.  Come,  Adam;  I'll  attend  the  captain. — Wilford, 
What  I have  just  now  given  you  in  charge, 

Be  sure  to  keep  fast  lock'd.  I shall  be  angry, — 

Be  very  angry  if  I find  you  careless. 

FoUow  me,  Adam. 

Exit  Mortimer,  r.  door — Winterton  following. 
WiLFORD.  This  house  is  no  house  for  me.  Fly  I will, 
I am  resolved : — but  wdiither  ? His  threats  strike  terror 
into  me  ; and  were  I to  reach  the  pole,  I doubt  whether 
I should  elude  his  grasp.  But  to  live  here  a slave — slave 
to  his  fears, — his  jealousies  ! — Night's  coming  on.  Dark- 
ness be  my  friend  ! for  I will  forth  instantly.  The  thought 
of  my  innocence  will  cheer  me,  as  I wander  through  the 
gloom.  Oh ! when  guilty  Ambition  writhes  upon  its  couch, 


«C.  V.l 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


59 


why  should  barefoot  Integrity  repine,  though  its  sweet 
deep  be  canopied  with  a ragged  hovel.  Exit^  r.  door. 

Scene  V. — The  inside  of  an  Abbey  in  ruins.  Part  of  it 
converted  into  an  habitation  for  robbers.  Various  en- 
trances  to  their  apartment  through  the  broken  arches  of 
the  building.,  ^c. 

Enter  Judith,  r.,  meeting  a Voy  from  l. 

Judith.  Well,  sirrah  ! have  you  been  upon  the  scout? 
Are  any  of  our  gang  returning  ? 

Boy.  No,  Judith,  not  a soul. 

Judith.  The  rogues  tarry  thus  to  fret  me. 

Boy.  Why,  indeed,  Judith,  the  credit  of  your  cookery 
is  lost  among  thieves.  They  never  come  punctual  to  their 
meals. 

Judith.  No  tidings  of  Orson  yet,  from  the  market  town  ? 
Boy.  I have  seen  nothing  of  him. 

Judith.  Brat!  thou  dost  never  bring  me  good  news. 
Boy.  Judith,  you  are  ever  so  cross  with  me ! 

Judith.  That  wretch  Orson  slights  my  love  of  late. 
Hence,  you  hemp- seed,  hence  I Get  to  the  broken  porch 
■of  the  abbey  and  watch.  ^Tis  all  you  are  good  for. 

Boy.  You  know  I am  but  young  yet,  Judith!  but,  with 
:good  instructions,  I may  be  a robber,  in  time. 

Judith.  Away,  you  imp ! you  will  never  reach  such 
preferment,  {ivhistle  without.,  l.)  So!  I hear  some  of  our 
party,  [whistle  again.,  l. — the  Boy  whistles  in  answer) 
Judith.  Why  must  you  keep  your  noise,  sirrah  ? 

Boy.  Nay,  Judith,  Tis  one  of  the  first  steps  we  boys 
learn  in  the  profession.  T shall  ne'er  come  to  good,  if  you 
check  me  so.  Huzza  I here  come  two  1 [rain  heard) 

Enter  two  Robbers  through  the  broken  part  of  the 
scene,  l.  u.  e. 

Judith.  So  ! you  have  found  your  road  at  last.  A 
murrain  light  upon  you ! is  it  thus  you  keep  your  hours  ? 

1st  Robber.  What,  hag,  ever  at  this  trade ! Ever 
grumbling ! 

Judith.  I have  reason.  I toil  to  no  credit;  I watcli 
with  no  thanks.  I trim  up  the  table  for  your  return,  and 


THE  IKON  CHEST. 


m 


[act  II. 


no  one  returns  in  due  time  to  notice  my  industry.  Your 
meat  is  scorched  to  cinders.  Rogues,  would  it  were  poison 
for  you ! 

2nd  Robber.  How  the  fury  raves  1 Here,  take  my 
carbine;  ^twas  levelhd,  some  half  hour  since,  at  a traveller's 
Read. 

Judith.  Hah,  hah,  hah  ! Rare!  Didst  shoot  him  ? 

1st  Robber.  Shoot  him?  no.  This  devil  in  petticoats 
thinks  no  more  of  slaying  a man,  than  killing  a cockchafer. 
I never  knew  a woman  turn  to  mischief,  that  she  did  not 
outdo  a man,  clean. 

Judith.  Did  any  of  you  meet  Orson  on  your  way? 

1st  Robber.  Aye,  there  the  hand  points.  When  that 
fellow  is  abroad,  you  are  more  savage  than  customary;  and 
that  is  needless. 

2nd  Robber.  None  of  our  comrades  come  yet?  They 
will  be  finely  soaked. 

1st  Robber.  Aye,  the  rain  pours  like  a spout  upon  the 
ruins  of  the  old  abbey  wall  here. 

Judith.  I^m  glad  on’t.  May  it  drench  them,  and  breed 
agues  1 Twill  teach  them  to  keep  time. 

1st  Robber.  Peace  ! thou  abominable  railer.  A man 
had  better  dwell  in  purgatory,  than  have  thee  in  his 
habitation. — Peace,  devil ! or  ITl  make  thee  repent. 

Judith.  You!  Tis  as  much  as  thy  life  is  worth  to  move 
my  spleen. 

1st  Robber.  What,  you  will  set  Orson,  your  champion, 
upon  me  ? 

Judith.  Coward!  he  should  not  disgrace  himself  with 
chastising  thee. 

1st  Robber.  Death  and  thunder  I 

Judith.  Aye,  attack  a woman,  do  ! it  suits  your  hen- 
hearted  valour.  Assault  a woman  ! 

1st  Robber.  Well — passion  hurried  me.  But  I have  a 
respect  for  the  soft  sex,  and  am  cool  again.  Come,  J udith, 
be  friends. — Nay,  come,  do;  and  I will  give  thee  a farthin- 
gale, I took  from  a lawyer's  widow. 

J UDITH.  Where  is  it  ? 

1st  Robber.  You  shall  have  it. 

Judith.  Well — I — Hark! 

2nd  Robber.  Soft!  I think  I hear  the  foot  of  a comrade. 


ac-  V.] 


THE  IROM  CHEtW, 


«1 


The  Robbers  enter  through  various  parts  of  ruins^  in 

groups,  Orson,  with  a basket  on  his  hack^  as  if  returned 

from  the  market^  l.  u.  e. 

1st.  Robber.  See!  hither  comes  Orson  at  last.  He 
^alks  in  like  plenty,  with  provision  on  his  shoulder. 

J UDiTH.  0,  Orson  ! — why  didst  tarry,  Orson?  I began 
to  fear.  Thou  art  cold  and  damp.  Let  me  ring  the  wet 
from  thy  clothes.  Oh  ! my  heart  leaps  to  see  thee. 

1st.  Robber,  (l.)  Mark  how  this  she-bear  hugs  her 
bruin  ! 

Orson.  Stand  off!  This  hamper  has  been  wearisome 
enough.  I want  not  thee  on  my  neck. 

Judith.  Villain!  Tis  thus  you  ever  use  me.  I can 
revenge : — I can — do  not,  dear  Orson  ! do  not  treat  me 

thus. 

Orson.  Let  a man  be  ever  so  sweet  tempered,  he 
will  meet  somewhat  to  sour  it.  I have  been  vexed  to 
madness. 

2nd.  Robber,  (r.)  How  now,  Orson,  what  has  vexed 
thee  now  ? 

Orson.  A prize  has  slipt  through  my  fingers. 

3rd  Robber,  (l.  c.)  Aye!  many,  liow? 

Orson.  I met  a straggling  knave  on  foot,  and  the  rogue 
resisted.  He  had  the  face  to  tell  me  that  he  was  thrust 
on  the  world  to  seek  his  fortune ; and  that  the  little  he  had 
about  him  was  his  all.  Plague  on  the  provision  at  my 
back  ! I had  no  time  to  rifle  him: — but  I have  spoiled  him 
for  fortune  seeking,  I warrant  him. 

Robber.  How? 

Orson.  Why  I beat  him  to  the  ground.  Whether  he 
will  e^er  get  up  again  the  next  passenger  may  discover. 

Judith.  Ha ! ha ! 0,  brave ! That's  my  valiant 
Orson! 

3rd  Robber.  Orson,  you  are  ever  disobeying  our  cap- 
tain's order.  You  are  too  remorseless  and  bloody. 

Orson.  Take  heed,  then,  how  you  move  my  anger,  by 
telling  me  on't.  The  affair  is  mine — I will  answer  to  the 
consequence.  {whistle^  l.) 

4th  Robber.  I hear  our  captain's  signal.  Here  he 
comes.  Ha ! — he  is  leading  one  who  seems  wounded. 

F 


62 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  II, 


Enter  Armstrong,  supporting  Wilford,  l.  u.  e. 

Armstrong.  Gently,  good  fellow ! come,  keep  a good 
heart ! 

Wilford.  You  are  very  kind.  I had  breathed  my  last, 
but  for  your  care.  Whither  have  you  led  me  ? 

1st  Robber.  Where  you  will  be  well  treated,  young- 
ster. You  are  now  among  as  honourable  a knot  of  men  as 
ever  cried  ‘‘  stand”  to  a trayeller. 

Wilford.  How : among  robbers  ! 

1st  Robber.  Why  so  the  law^s  cant  calls  us  gentle- 
men who  live  at  large. 

Wilford.  So  ! for  what  am  I reserved  ? 

Armstrong.  Fear  nothing.  You  are  safe  in  this  asylum. 
Judith,  lead  him  in.  See  some  of  my  linen  ready,  and 
look  to  his  wound. 

Judith.  I do  not  like  the  office.  You  are  ever  at  these 
tricks.  ’Twill  ruin  us  in  the  end.  What  have  we  to  do 
with  charity  ? 

Armstrong.  Turbulent  wretch  ! obey  me. 

Judith.  Well,  I shall.  Come,  fellow,  since  it  must 
be  so. 

Armstrong.  Anon,  I’ll  visit  you  myself,  lad. 

Wilford.  Heaven  bless  you  ! whatever  becomes  of  my 
life — and  faith,  I am  almost  weary  on’t — I am  bound  to 
your  charity.  Gently,  I pray  you — my  wound  pains. — 
Gently!  Exit^  led  out  hy  Judith,  r. 

Armstrong.  I would  I knew  which  of  you  had  done 
this. 

1st  Robber,  (l.)  Why  what’s  the  matter,  captain? 

Armstrong.  Cruelty  is  the  matter.  Had  not  accident 
led  me  to  the  spot  where  he  lay,  yon  poor  boy  had  bled  to 
death.  I learned  his  story,  partly,  from  him,  on  the  way : 
and  know  how  basely  he  has  been  handled  by  one  of  you. 
Well  time  must  discover  him  ; for  he,  who  had  brutality 
enough  to  commit  the  action,  can  scarcely  have  courage 
enougli  to  confess  it. 

Orson,  (r.)  Courage,  captain,  is  a quality,  I take  it,  little 
Wanted  by  any  here.  What  signify  words — I did  it. 

Armstrong.  I suspected  thee,  Orson.  ’Tis  scarce  an 
hour  since  he,  whom  thou  hast  wounded,  quitted  the 


»C.  V.]  THE  IRON  CHEST.  63 

service  of  Sir  Edward  Mortimer,  in  the  forest,  here ; and 
enquiry  will  doubtless  be  made, 

2nd  Robber,  (r.  c.)  Nay  then  we  are  all  discovered. 

Armstrong.  Now,  mark  what  thou  hast  done.  Thou 
hast  endangered  the  safety  of  our  party  ; thou  hast  broken 
my  order  (Tis  not  the  first  time,  by  many)  in  attacking  a 
passenger  : — and  what  passenger  ? One  whose  unhappy 
case  should  have  claimed  your  pity.  He  told  you  he  had 
displeased  his  master — ^left  the  house  of  comfort,  and,  w ith 
his  scanty  pittance,  was  wandering  round  the  world  to 
mend  his  fortune.  Like  a butcher,  you  struck  the  forlorn 
boy  to  the  earth,  and  left  him  to  languish  in  the  forest. 
W ould  any  of  our  brave  comrades  have  done  this  ? 

All.  None ! None  ! 

Armstrong.  Comrades,  in  this  case,  my  voice  is  single. 
But  if  it  have  any  weight,  this  brute,  this  Orson,  shall  be 
thrust  from  our  community,  which  he  has  disgraced.  Let 
it  not  be  said,  brothers,  while  want  drives  us  to  plunder, 
that  wantonness  prompts  us  to  butchery. 

Robbers.  0 brave  captain  ! away  with  him ! 

Orson.  You  had  better  ponder  onT,  ere  you  provoke 
me. 

Armstrong.  Rascal!  do  you  mutter  threats.  You 
cannot  terrify  us.  Our  calling  teems  with  danger — we 
are  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  treachery  of  an  informer. 
We  defy  you.  Go.  You  dare  not  hurt  us.  You  dare  not 
sacrifice  so  many  brave,  and  gallant  fellows,  to  your 
revenge,  and  proclaim  yourself  scoundrel.  Begone. 

Orson.  Well,  if  I must,  I must  {crossing  l.)  I was 
always  a friend  to  you  all : but  if  you  are  bent  on  turning 
me  out 

Robbers.  Aye,  aye — away,  away  I 

Orson.  Then  the  devil  take  you  all ! Exit,  l. 

Armstrong.  Come,  comrades — think  no  more  of  this. 
Let  us  drown  the  choler  we  have  felt  in  wine  and  revelry. 

^ Finale,  {often  omitted,) 

Jolly  Friars  tippled  here. 

Ere  these  abbey  walls  had  crumbled ; 

Still  the  ruins  boast  good  cheer. 

Though  long  ago  the  cloysters  tumbled. 


64 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  IIL 


The  monks  are  gone:— • 

Well!  well! 

That's  all  one  : — 

Let's  ring  their  knell. 

Ding  dong!  ding  dong!  to  the  bald-pated  monk! 
He  set  the  example, 

We^l  follow  his  sample, 

And  all  go  to  bed  most  religiously  drunk. 

Peace  to  the  good  fat  friar's  soul! 

Who,  every  day, 

Did  wet  his  clay. 

In  the  deep  capacious  bowl. 

Huzza!  huzza!  we'll  drink,  and  we'll  sing  I 
We'll  laugh,  and  we'll  quaff, 

And  make  the  welkin  ring  ! 

END  OF  ACT  H. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — A Boom  in  Sir  Edward  Mortimer* s Lodge.  A 
table  and  two  chairs^  R. ; sofa  near  l. 

Mortimer  and  Helen  discovered. 

Helen.  Sooth,  you  look  better  now ; indeed  you  do. 

Mortimer.  ThouVt  a sweet  flatterer ! 

Helen.  Ne'er  trust  me,  the% 

If  I do  flatter.  This  is  wilfulness. — 

Thou  wilt  be  sick,  because  thou  wilt  be  sick. 

I'll  cure  you  of  this  fancy,  Mortimer. 

Mortimer.  And  what  would' st  thou  prescribe? 

Helen.  I would  distil 

Each  flower  that  lavish  happiness  produced. 

Through  the  world's  paradise,  ere  disobedience 
Scatter'd  the  seeds  of  care  ; then  mingle  each, 

In  one  huge  cup  of  comfort  for  thee,  love. 

To  chase  away  thy  dulness.  Thou  shouldst  wanton 
Upon  the  wings  of  Time,  and  mock  his  flight, 

As  he  sail'd  with  thee  tow'rd  eternity. 

I'd  have  each  hour,  each  minute  of  thy  life, 

A golden  holiday;  and  should  a cloud 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


65 


sc.  I.] 

Overcast  thee,  be  it  light  as  gossamer, 

That  Helen  might  disperse  it  with  her  breath, 

And  talk  thee  into  sunshine! 

Mortimer.  Sweet,  sweet  Helen!  (they  rise) 

Death,  softened  with  thy  voice,  might  dull  liis  sting, 
And  steep  his  darts  in  balsam.  Oh  ! my  Helen, 
These  warnings  which  that  grisly  monarch  sends, 
Forerunners  of  his  certain  visitation, 

Of  late  are  frequent  with  me.  It  should  seem 
I was  not  meant  to  live  long. 

Helen.  Mortimer  1 

I could  not  talk  so  cruelly  to  you ! 

I would  not  pain  you  thus,  for  worlds  ! 

Mortimer.  Nay,  come; 

I meant  not  this.  I did  not  mean  to  say 
There^s  danger  now : but  Tis  the  privilege 
Of  sickness  to  be  grave,  and  moralize 
On  that  which  sickness  brings.  I prithee,  now, 

Be  comforted.  Believe  me,  I shall  mend. 

I feel  I shall  already. 

Helen.  Do  you,  Mortimer  ? 

Do  you,  indeed,  feel  so  ? 

Mortimer.  Indeed  I do. 

Helen.  I knew  you  would : — I said  it.  Did  I not  ? 

I see  it  in  your  looks,  now,  you  are  better. 
Mortimer.  Scarce  possible,  so  suddenly ! 

Helen.  Oh,  yes; 

There  is  no  little  movement  of  your  face 
But  I can  mark  on  the  instant — Tis  my  study. 

I have  so  gazed  upon  it,  that,  I think, 

I can  interrupt  every  turn  it  has. 

And  read  your  inmost  soul. 

Mortimer.  What  ? 

Helen.  Mercy  on  me ! 

You  change  again. 

Mortimer.  ^Twas  nothing.  Do  not  fear  , 

These  little  shocks,  are  usual. — 'Twill  not  last. 
Helen.  Would  you  could  shake  them  off. 

Mortimer.  I would  I could  I 

Helen.  I prithee,  now,  endeavour. — This  young  man, 
This  boy — this  Wilford — he  has  been  ungrateful ; 


66 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  IIL 


But  do  not  let  his  baseness  wear  you  thus. 

Even  let  him  go. 

Mortimer.  I’ll  hunt  him  through  the  world ! 

Helen.  Why,  look  you  there  now ! Pray  be  calm. 
Mortimer.  Well,  well ; 

I am  too  boisterous  : ’tis  my  unhappiness 
To  seem  most  harsh  where  I would  shew  most  kind. 
The  world  has  made  me  peevish.  This  same  boy 
Has  somewhat  moved  me. 

Helen.  He’s  beneath  your  care. 

Seek  him  not  now,  to  punish  him.  Poor  wretch ! 

He  carries  that  away,  within  his  breast, 

Which  will  embitter  all  his  life  to  come, 

And  make  him  curse  the  knowledge  on’t. 

Mortimer.  The  knowledge  !— * 

Has  he  then  breathed carries  within  his  breast  t 

What  does  he  know  ? 

Helen.  His  own  ingratitude. 

Mortimer.  Oh,  very  true. 

Helen.  Then  leave  him  to  his  conscience. 

Believe  me,  love, 

There  is  no  earthly  punishment  so  great. 

To  scourge  ah  evil  act,  as  man’s  own  conscience, 

To  tell  him  he  is  guilty.  _ 

Mortimer.  ’Tis  a hell ! 

I pray  you  talk  no  more  on’t. — I am  weak — 

I did  not  sleep  last  night,  (sits) 

Helen.  Would  you  sleep  now? 

Mortimer.  No,  Helen,  no.  I tire  thy  patient  sweetness. 
Helen.  Tire  me!  nay,  that  you  do  not.  Who  comes  here. 

Enter  Winterton,  r. — Sir  Edward  sits  on  a sofa. 

What,  Winterton!  how  dost  thou,  old  acquaintance? 
How  dost  thou,  Adam  ? 

Winterton.  Bless  your  goodness,  well. 

Is  my  good  master  better  ? 

Helen.  Somewhat,  Adam. 

Winterton.  Now,  by  our  lady,  I rejoice  to  hear  it. 

I have  a message 

Helen.  0,  no  business  now  ! 

Winterton.  Nay,  so  I said.  Quoth  I,  ‘‘His  honour’s  sick; 


sc.  1.]  the  iron  chest.  67 

Perilous  sick  !”  but  the  rogue  pressed,  and  pressed; 

I could  refuse  no  longeiv 
Helen.  AVho  has  thus  importuned  you? 

WiNTERTON.  To  say  the  truth,  a most  ill- favor’d  varlet. 
But  he  will  speak  to  none  but  to  his  worship. 

I think  ^tis  forest  business. 

Mortimer.  0,  not  now  : 

Another  time — to-morrow — when  he  will. 

I am  unfit. — They  teaze  me  ! 

WiNTERTON.  Even  as  you  please,  your  worship.  I should 
think. 

From  what  he  dropt,  he  can  give  some  account 
Of  the  poor  boy. 

Mortimer.  Of  Wilford ! [crosses  to  Wintebton) 

WiNTERTON.  Troth,  I think  so. 

The  knave  is  shy ; but  Adam  has  a head. 

Mortimer.  Quick;  send  him  hither  on  the  instant!  Haste! 
Fly,  Adam,  fly. 

AVinterton.  Well  now,  it  glads  my  heart 

To  hear  you  speak  so  briskly. 

Mortimer.  Well,  dispatch ! 

WiNTERTON.  I go.  Heavcu  bless  you  both  ! Heaven  send 
you  well. 

And  merry  days  may  come  again.  Exit^  r. 

Helen.  I fear  this  business  may  distract  you,  Mortimer  : 

I would  you  would  defer  it  till  to-morrow. 
Mortimer.  Not  so,  sweet.  Do  not  fear.  I prithee,  now, 
Let  me  have  way  in  this.  Retire  awhile. 

Anon  Til  come  to  thee. 

Helen.  Pray  now,  be  careful. 

I dread  those  agitations.  Pray,  keep  calm. 

Now  do  not  tarry  long.  Adieu  ! my  Mortimer  ! 
Mortimer.  Farewell,  awhile,  sweet! 

Helen.  Since  it  must  be  so — Farewell ! Exit  Helen,  l. 
Mortimer.  Dear,  simple  innocence  ! thy  words  of  comfort 
Pour  oil  upon  my  fires.  Methought  her  eye. 

When  first  she  spake  of  conscience,  shot  a glance 
Like  her  dead  uncle  on  me.  AVell,  for  AVilford! 
That  slave  can  play  the  Parthian  with  my  fame, 

And  wound  it  while  he  flies.  Bring  him  before  me, 
Place  me  the  runagate  witliin  my  gripe. 


68 


the' IRON  CHEST. 


[act  III. 


And  I will  plant  my  honour  on  its  base, 

Firmer  than  adamant,  though  hell  and  death 
Should  moat  the  work  with  blood ! Oh,  how  will  sia 
Engender  sin  ! Throw  guilt  upon  the  soul, 

And,  like  a rock  dash’d  on  the  troubled  lake, 

’Twill  form  its  circles,  round  succeeding  round, 

Each  wider  than  the 

Enter  Orson,  r. 

How  now  ! What’s  your  business? 
Orson.  Part  with  your  office  in  the  forest : part 
Concerns  yourself  in  private. 

Mortimer.  How  myself? 

Orson.  Touching  a servant  of  your  house;  a lad. 

Whose  heels,  I find,  were  nimbler  than  his  duty. 
Mortimer.  Speak;  what  of  him?  Quick — Know  you 
where  he  is? 

Canst  bring  me  to  him  ? 

Orson.  To  the  very  spot. 

Mortimer.  Do  it. 

Orson.  Nay,  softly. 

Mortimer.  I’ll  reward  you — amply— 

Ensure  your  fortunes. 

Orson.  First  ensure  my  neck. 

’Twill  do  me  little  good  else.  I’ve  no  heirs  ; 

And,  when  I die,  ’tis  like  the  law  will  bury  me. 

At  its  own  charge. 

Mortimer.  Be  brief,  and  to  your  purpose. 

Orson.  Then,  to  the  business  which  concerns  your  office, 
Here,  in  the  forest. 

Mortimer.  Nay,  of  that  anon. 

First  of  my  servant. 

Orson.  Well,  even  as  you  please. 

’Tis  no  rare  thing — Let  public  duty  wait, 

Till  private  interests  are  settled.  But 
My  story  is  a chain.  Take  all  together, 

’Twill  not  unlink. 

Mortimer.  Be  quick,  then.  While  we  talk. 

This  slave  escapes  me, 

Drson.  Little  fear  of  that. 

He’s  in  no  plight  to  journey  far  to-day. 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


SC.  I.] 


6^ 


Mortimer.  Where  is  he  hid  ? 


Orson. 

Mortimer. 


Hard  by ; with  robbers. 


Robbers ! — 


Well,  I^m  glad  on^t.  ^Twill  suit  my  purpose  best. 
{aloud)  What,  has  he  turn'd  to  plunder? 

Orson.  No  ; not  so. 

Plunder  has  turn'd  to  him.  He  was  knock'd  down, 
Last  night,  here  in  the  forest,  flat  and  sprawling ; 
And  the  milk-hearted  captain  of  our  gang 
Has  shelter'd  him. 

Mortimer.  It  seems,  then,  thou'rt  a thief? 

Orson.  I serv'd  in  the  profession : But,  last  night. 

The  scurvy  rogues  cashier’d  me.  'Twas  a plot, 

To  ruin  a poor  fellow  in  his  calling. 

And  take  away  my  means  of  getting  bread. 

I come  here,  in  revenge.  I'll  hang  my  comrades, 

In  clusters,  on  the  forest  oaks,  like  acorns. 

Mortimer.  Where  lies  their  haunt? 

Orson.  Give  me  your  honour,  first 

Mortimer.  I pledge  it,  for  your  safety. 

Orson.  Send  your  officers 

To  the  old  Abbey  ruins  ; you  will  find 
As  bold  a gang  as  e'er  infested  woods, 

And  fatten'd  upon  pillage. 


What,  so  near  me  ! {crosses^  R.) 


Mortimer. 


In  some  few  minutes,  then,  he' s m ine ! Ho ! Winterton ! 
Now  for  his  lurking  place  ! Hope  dawns  again. 
Remain  you  here;  I may  have  work  for  you.  {to  Orson) 
0 ! I will  weave  a web  so  intricate. 

For  this  base  insect!  so  entangle  him! — 

Why,  Winterton  ! Thou  jewel,  reputation  I 
Let  me  secure  thee,  bright  and  spotless,  now ; 

And  this  weak,  care-worn  body's  dissolution, 

Will  cheaply  pay  the  purchase  ! Winterton  ! 


Exit^  R. 


Orson.  There  may  be  danger  in  my  stay  here.  I will 
e'en  slink  off,  in  the  confusion  I have  raised.  I value  not 
the  reward.  I hang  my  comrades,  and  that  shall  content 
me. 

He  glances  rounds  sees  a silver  candlestick^  which  he 
concealsj  and  goes  off^  r. 


70 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  III 


Scene  II. — A Hall  in  the  Lodge. 

Enter  FiTZHARDiNa,  l. 

Fitz.  The  hue  and  cry  is  up ! I am  half  tempted 
To  wish  the  game  too  nimble  for  the  dogs, 

That  hunt  him  at  the  heels.  Wilford  dishonest  ? 
I’ll  mix  with  none, 

In  future,  but  the  ugly : honest  men. 

Who  can  outgrin  a Griffin  ; or  the  head 
Carved  on  the  prow  of  the  good  ship  the  Gorgon.. 
I’m  for  carbuncled,  weather-beaten  faces, 

That  frightened  little  children,  and  might  serve 
For  knockers  to  hall  gates. — 

Enter  Samson,  r. 

Now — who  are  you  t 

Samson.  Head  serving-man  to  madam  Helen,  sir. 

Fitz.  Well,  I may  talk  to  tliee ; for  thou  dost  answer 
To  the  description  of  the  sort  of  men 
I have  resolved  to  live  with. 

Samson.  I am  proud,  sir, 

To  find  I have  your  countenance. 

Fitz.  Canst  tell  me 

The  news  of  Wilford  ? 

Samson.  He  is  turn’d  a rogue,  sir. 

An  errant  knave,  sir.  ’Tis  a rare  thing,  now. 

To  find  an  honest  servant : — we  are  scarce. 

Fitz.  Where  lies  the  abbey  where  they  go  to  seek  him  ? 
Dost  know  it  ? 

Samson.  Marry,  do  I ; in  the  dark. 

I have  stood  near  it,  many  a time,  in  winter, 

To  watch  the  hares,  by  moonlight. 

Fitz.  A cold  pastime  ! 

Samson.  Ay,  sir  ; ’twas  killing  work.  I’ve  left  it  off. 
Fitz.  Think  you  they  wull  be  back  soon  ? 

Samson.  On  the  instant 

It  is  hard  by,  sir. — Hark  I hear  their  horses  ! 

They  are  return’d,  I warrant. 

Fitz.  Run  you,  fellow, — (Samson  crosses^  l.) 

If  Wilford’ s taken,  send  him  here  to  me. 


71 


sc.  II.]  THE  IRON  CHEST. 

Bamson.  Why  he’s  a rogue,  sir.  Would  your  worship 
stoop 

To  parley  with  a rogue  ! 

Fitz.  Friend,  I will  stoop 

To  prop  a sinking  man,  that's  call'd  a rogue, 

And  count  him  innocent,  'till  he's  found  guilty. 

I learn' d it  from  our  English  laws.  Till  detection 
comes, 

I side  with  the  accused. 

Samson.  Would  I had  known 

Your  worship  sooner.  You're  a friend,  indeed  ! 

All  undiscover'd  rogues  are  bound  to  pray  for  you : 
So,  heaven  bless  you ! 

Fitz.  Well,  well — bustle;  stir: — 

Do  as  I bid  thea. 

Samson.  Aye  sir. — I shall  lean 

Upon  your  worship  in  any  time  of  need. — 

Heaven  reward  you ! — Here's  a friend  to  make  I 

Exit,  L. 

Fitz.  I have  a kind  of  movement,  still,  for  Wilford, 

I cannot  conquer.  What  can  be  this  charge 

Sir  Edward  brings  against  himP—So!  Here  he  comes! 

Enter  Wilford,  l. 

AYilford.  I am  inform'd  it  is  your  pleasurcj  sir, 

To  speak  with  me. 

Fitz.  Aye,  Wilford.  I am  sorry— 

Faith,  very  sorry, — you  and  I meet  thus. 

How  could  you  quit  my  brother  thus  abruptly  ? 
Wilford.  I was  unfit  to  serve  him,  sir. 

Fitz.  Unfit ! 

Wilford.  I was  unhappy,  sir.  I fled  a house 
Where  certain  misery  awaited  me. 

While  I was  doom'd  to  dwell  in't. 

Fitz.  Misery ! 

What  was  this  certain  misery  ? 

Wilford.  Your  pardon, — 

I never  will  divulge. 

Fitz.  Harkye,  young  man.  This  smacks  of  mystery ; 
And  now  looks  foully^  Truth  and  Innocence, 


72 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


[act  III. 

Walk  round  the  world  in  native  nakedness ; 

But  Guilt  is  cloak’d. 

WiLFORD.  Whate’er  the  prejudice 

My  conduct  conjures  up,  I must  submit. 

Fitz.  ’Twere  better  now  you  conjured  up  your  friends: 

For  I must  tell  you No,  there  is  no  need. 

You  learn’ d it,  doubtless,  on  the  way,  and  know 
The  danger  you,  now,  stand  in. 

WiLFORD.  Danger,  sir ! 

What  ? How  ? I have  learnM  nothing,  sir : my  guides 
Dragged  me  in  silence  hither. 

Fitz.  Then  Tis  fit 

I put  you  on  your  guard.  It  grieves  me,  Wilford, 

To  say  there  is  a heavy  charge  against  you, 

Which,  as  I gather,  may  affect  your  life. 

WiLFORD.  Mine! — oh,  good  heaven! 

Fitz.  Pray  be  calm  : — for,  soon, 

Here,  in  the  face  of  all  his  family, 

My  brother  will  accuse  you. 

WiLFORD.  He ! — what,  he ! 

He  accuse  me  ! oh,  monstrous ! Oh,  look  down 

You  who  can  read  men’s  hearts  I — A charge  against 
me ! 

Ha,  ha!  I’m  innocent ! I’m  innocent!  {much  agitated) 
Fitz.  Collect  your  firmness.  You  will  need  it  all. 
WiLFORD.  I shall,  indeed ! I pray  you  tell  me,  sir, 

What  is  the  charge  ? 

Fitz.  I do  not  know  its  purport 

I would  not  hear  on’t : for  on  my  voice  rests 
The  issue  of  this  business ; — and  a judge 
Should  come  unbiass’ d to  his  office.  Wilford, 

Were  twenty  brothers  waiting  my  award, 

You  should  have  even,  and  impartial  justice. 
Farewell ! and  may  you  prosper  ! Exitj  r. 

Wilford.  Let  me  recall  my  actions. — My  breast  is 
unclogged  with  crime.  Then,  why  should  I fear  ? Let 
him  inflict  his  menaces  upon,  me  in  secret ; he  shall  nor, 
cannot,  touch  my  good  name. 

Enter  Barbara,  l. 

Barbara.  Oh,  Wilford  ! ( falls  on  his  neck) 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


75 


tSC.  II.] 

WiLFORD.  Barbara  ! at  such  a time,  too  ! 

Barbara.  To  be  bror.glit  back,  thus,  Wilford ! and  to 
go  away  without  seeing  me  ! without  thinking  of  me ! 

Wilford.  It  was  not  so — I was  hastening  to  your  cot- 
tage, Barbara,  when  a ruffian,  in  the  forest,  encountered 
and  wounded  me. 

Barbara.  Wounded  you ! 

Wilford.  Aye,  Barbara.  When  I was  dragged  hither, 
the  whole  trooj)  escaped,  or  they  had  vouched  for  the 
truth  on^t. 

Barbara.  Bethink  you,  Wilford — the  time  is  short : I 
know  your  heart  is  good. 

Barbara,  If,  in  a hasty  moment,  you  have  done  ought 
to  wrong  Sir  Edward,  throw  yourself  on  his  mercy  , — sue 
for  pardon. 

Wilford.  For  pardon  ! — I shall  go  mad  ! Pardon  ! I 
am  innocent. — Heaven  knows  I am  innocent. 

Barbara.  Heaven  be  thanked! — The  family  is  all  sum- 
moned. 0,  Wilford ! my  spirits  sink  within  me. 

Wilford.  [aside)  I am,  now,  but  a sorry  comforter. 
Be  of  good  cheer.  I go  armed  in  honesty,  Barbara.  This 
charge  is  to  be  open  in  the  eye  of  the  world,  and  of  the 
law;  then,  wherefore,  should  I fear.  I am  native  of  a 
happy  soil,  where  Justice  guards  equally  the  life  of  its 
poorest  and  richest  inhabitant. 

Exit  Wilford  and  Barbara,  r. 

Scene  III. — An  Apartment  in  the  Lodge,  Table  and  two 
arm  chairs ; — trunk  on  tahle^  l. 

Fiztharding  seated^  c.,  Wilford,  r.  ; Gregory  and 
Domestics  discovered^  r.  and  l. 

PiTZ.  Is  not  Sir  Edward  coming?  Oh  ! he’s  here! 

Enter  Sir  Edward  Mortimer,  r. 

Now,  brother — You  lOok  pale, 

And  faint  with  sickness.  Here’s  a chair. 

Mortimer,  (sitting,,  l.  c.)  No  matter. — To  our  business, 
brother.  Wilford ! 

You  may  well  guess  the  struggle  I endure 
To  place  you  here  the  mark  of  accusation. 

G 


74 


THE  IKON  CHEST. 


[act  hi. 


I gave  you  ample  warning  : Cautioned  you, 

When  many  might  have  scourged  : and,  even  now, 
AYhile  I stand  liere  to  crush  you, — aye,  to  crush  you, 
My  heart  bleeds  drops  of  pity  for  your  youth, 

W^hose  rashness  plucks  the  red  destruction  down, 
And  pulls  the  bolt  upon  you. 

WiLFORD.  You  know  best 

The  movements  of  your  heart,  sir.  Man  is  blind, 
And  cannot  read  them : but  there  is  a Judge, 

To  whose  all-seeing  eye  our  inmost  thoughts 
Lie  open.  Think  to  him  you  now  appeal. — 
Omniscience  keeps  heaven’s  register ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  when  Time  unfolds  the  book, 

Our  trembling  souls  must  answer  to  the  record, 

And  meet  their  due  reward  or  punishment. 

Fitz.  Now,  to  the  point,  I pray  you. 

Mortimer.  Thus  it  is,  then, 

1 do  suspect — By  heaven,  the  story  lingers. 

Like  poison  on  my  tongue, — but  he  will  force  it 

Fitz.  What  is  it  you  suspect  ? 

Mortimer.  That  he  has  robVd  me. 

WiLFORD.  RobbM!  I!  0,  horrible ! 

Fitz.  [to  Wilford)  Not  yet — not  yet. 

Pray  tell  me,  brother,  how  ground  you  this  suspicion  ? 

Mortimer.  Briefly,  thus  : — 

You  may  have  noticed,  in  my  library, 

A chest ; (Wilford  starts) — You  see  he  changes  at 
the  word. 

Wilford.  [aside)  And  well  I may  ! 

Mortimer.  Where  I have  told  you,  brother, 

The  writings  which  concern  our  family, 

With  jewels,  cash,  and  other  articles. 

Of  no  mean  value,  were  deposited. 

Fitz.  You  oftentimes  have  said  so. 

MortIxMer.  Yesterday, 

Chance  calhd  me,  suddenly,  away ; I left 
The  key  in’t — but  as  suddenly  return’d ; 

And  found  this  Wilford,  this  young  man,  whose  state. 
Whose  orphan  state,  met  pity  in  my  house, 

’Till  pity  grew  to  friendship, — him  I found, 

FixM  o’er  the  chest,  upon  his  knees,  intent. 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


75 


se.  III.] 

As,  now,  I think,  on  plunder.  Confusion 
Shook  his  young  joints,  as  he  let  fall  the  lid, 

And  gave  me  back  the  key. 

Fitz.  Did  you  not  search 

Your  pepers  on  the  instant? 

Mortimer.  No  : — for,  first, 

(Habit  so  long  had  fix^d  my  confidence) 

I deem'd  it  boyish  curiosity  ; — 

But  told  him  this  would  meet  my  further  question  : 
And,  at  that  moment,  came  a servant  in. 

To  say  you  were  arrived.  He  must  have  mark'd 
Our  mix'd  emotion. 

Fitz.  Is  that  servant  here  ? 

Gregory,  [coiiies  down  l.)  'Twas  I,  sir. 

Mortimer.  Was  it  you?  Well,  saw  you  ought 
To  challenge  your  attention  ? 

Gregory.  Sir,  I did. — 

Wilford  was  pale  and  trembling  ; and  our  master 
Gave  .him  a look  as  if  'twould  pierce  him  through  ; 
And  cried,  ^‘Eemember." — Then  he  trembled  more. 
And  we  both  quitted  him. 

Mortimer.  When  first  we  met. 

You  found  me  somewhat  ruffled. 

Fitz.  'Tis  most  true. 

Mortimer.  But  somewhat  more  when,  afterwards,  I saw, 
Wilford  conversing  with  you  ; — like  a snake, 

Sun'd  by  your  looks,  and  basking  in  your  favour. 

I bade  him  quit  the  room,  with  indignation. 

And  wait  my  coming  in  the  library. 

Fitz.  I witness'd  that,  with  wonder. 

Mortimer.  0,  good  brother  ! 

You  little  thought,  while  you  so  gently  school'd  me, 
In  the  full  flow  of  your  benevolence. 

For  my  harsh  bearing  tow'rd  him,  on  what  ground 
That  harshness  rested.  I had  made  my  search, 

In  the  brief  interval  of  absence  from  you, 

And  found  my  property  had  vanish'd. 

Fitz.  (c.)  Well— 

You  met  him  in  the  library? 

Mortimer,  (l.  c.)  0,  never 

Can  he  forget  that  solemn  interview.  ^ 


76  THE  IRON  CHEST.  [ACT  III. 

AVilford.  (r.)  Aye,  speak  to  that: — it  was  a solemn 
interview. 

Mortimer.  Observe,  he  does  acknowledge  that  we  met ; 
Guilt  was  my  theme : — he  cannot,  now  deny  it. 

WiLFORD.  It  was  a theme  of No  ! [checking  himself) 

Mortimer,  He  pleaded  innocence  : 

AYliile  every  word  he  spake  belied  his  features, 

And  mocked  his  protestation. 

Fitz.  What  said  you  to  him? 

Mortimer.  Regulate  your  life. 

In  future,  better.  I,  now,  spare  your  youth ; 

But  dare  not  to  proceed.  All  I exact, 

(’Tis  a soft  penance) — that  you  tarry  here  ; 

My  eye  your  guard,  my  house  your  gentle  prison,, 
My  bounty  be  your  chains.  Attempt  not  flight ; 
Flight  ripens  all  my  doubt  to  certainty. 

And  justice  to  the  world  unlocks  my  tongue." — 
He  fled,  and  I arraign  him. 

Fitz.  Trust  me,  brother. 

This  charge  is  staggering.  Yet  accidents 
Sometimes  combine  to  cast  a shade  of  doubt 
Upon  the  innocent.  May  it  be  so  here  ! 

Here  is  his  trunk  : Twas  brought  here  at  my  order. 
’Tis  fit  it  be  inspected. 

WiLFORu.  Here’s  the  key — 

(Gregory  goes  for  key  and  gives  it  to  Fitzharding) 
E’en  take  it,  freely. — You’ll  find  little  there 
I value  ; save  a locket,  which  my  mother 
Gave  me  upon  her  death-bed  ; and  she  added 
Her  blessing  to’t.  Perhaps,  her  spirit  now 
Is  grieving  for  my  injuries. 

Fitz.  [goes  to  trunk)  How  now  ? What’s  there? 

The  very  watch  Sir  Edward’s  father  wore ! 

And,  here,  our  mother’s  jewels ! 

WiLFORD.  I am  innocent.  Just  heaven  hear  me  ! 

Fitz.  Make  it  appear  so. — But  look  there ; look  there ! 

[points  to  the  trunk) 

WiLFORD.  Do  you  not  know 

jMortimer.  What? 

WiLFORD.  ’Tis  no  matter,  sir. 

But  I could  swear 

Mortimer,  [rises)  Nay,  Wilford,  pause  awhile. 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


77 


SC.  III.] 

Reflect  that  oaths  are  sacred.  Weigh  the  force 
Of  these  asservatioiis.  Mark  it  well. 

I swear  hy  all  the  ties  that  hind  a man^ 

Divine  or  human  ! Think  on  that,  and  shudder. 
WiLFORD.  [aside)  The  very  words  I utter'd!  I am 
tongue-tied. 

Fitz.  Wilford,  if  there  be  aught  that  you  can  urge, 

To  clear  yourself,  advance  it. 

Wilford.  0,  I could  ! 

I could  say  much,  but  must  not. — No,  I will  not. 

Do  as  you  please.  I have  no  friend — no  witness, 
Save  my  accuser.  Did  he  not — pray  ask  him  ? 

Did  he  not  menace,  in  his  pride  of  power, 

To  blast  my  name,  and  crush  my  innocence  ? 

Fitz.  What  do  you  answer,  sir? 

Mortimer.  I answer — No. — 

More  were  superfluous,  when  a criminal 

Opposes  empty  volubility 

To  circumstantial  charge  A stedfast  brow 

Repels  not  fact,  nor  can  invalidate 

These  dumb,  but  damning,  witnesses,  before  him. 

[pointing  to  the  trunk) 
Wilford.  By  the  just  Power  that  rules  us,  I am  ignorant 
How  they  came  there  ! — but  'tis  my  firm  belief. 

You  placed  them  there,  to  sink  me. 

Fitz.  0,  too  much  I 

You  steel  men'shearts  against  you!  Death  and  shame! 
It  rouses  honest  choler.  Call  the  officers. — 

He  shall  meet  punishment.  (Servants  going^  r.) 
Mortimer,  [sits^  c.)  Hold  ! pray  you,  hold. 

Justice  has,  thus  far,  struggled  with  my  pity. 

To  do  an  act  of  duty  to  the  ^vorld. 

I would  unmask  a hypocrite ; lay  bare 

The  front  of  guilt,  that  men  may  see  and  shun  it : 

'Tis  done — And  I will,  now,  proceed  no  further. 

I would  not  hurt  the  serpent,  but  to  make 
The  serpent  hurtless.  Pie  has  lost  his  sting  : 

Let  him  depart,  and  freely. 

Fitz.  Look  ye,  brother,  this  act 

Is  so  begrimed  with  black,  ungrateful  malice. 

That  I insist  on  justice.  Fly,  knaves  ! run. 


78  THE  IRON  CHEST.  [aCT  III. 

And  let  him  be  secured.  [Exeunt  Servants,  l.)  You 
tarry  here,  [to  Wilford) 

Mortimer.  I will  not  have  it  thus. 

Fitz.  You  must — You  shall — 

Tis  weak  else.  Oons  ! I trust  I have  as  much 
Of  good,  straight-forward  pity,  as  may  serve  : — 

But,  to  turn  dove — to  sit  still,  and  be  peck’d  at, — 

Tt  is  too  tame.  His  insolence  tops  all ! 

Does  not  this  rouse  you,  too  ? — Look  on  these  jewels. 
Look  at  this  picture. — ’Twas  our  mother’s  : stay. 

Let  me  inspect  this  nearer.  What  are  here  ? 

Parchments [inspecting  the  trunk) 

Mortimer.  Oh,  look  no  further — they  are  deeds. 

Which,  in  his  haste,  no  doubt  he  crowded  there. 

Not  knowing  what — to  look  o’er  at  his  leisure 
Family  deeds — they  all  were  in  my  chest. 

Wilford.  Oh,  ’tis  deep  laid ! — these,  too,  to  give  a colour  I 

[aside) 

Fitz.  What  have  we  here?  Here  is  a paper 
Of  curious  enfolding — slip!,  as  ’twere 
By  chance,  within  another.  This  may  be 
Of  note  upon  his  trial,  [a  dagger  falls)  What’s  this 
drops  ? 

A knife,  it  seems ! 

Mortimer.  What ! [starting) 

Fitz.  Marks  of  blood  upon  it. 

Mortimer.  Touch  it  not.  Throw  it  back! — bury  it — 
sink  it!  [runs  down^  r.) 

Oh,  carelessness  and  haste  ! Give  me  that  paper. 
Darkness  and  hell ! — Give  me  the  paper. 

(Mortimer  attempts  to  snatch  it — Wilford  runs 
between  the  two  brothers^  falls  on  his  kneeSj  and 
prevents  him,  holding  Fitziiarding) 

Wilford.  [rapidly)  No. 

I see — I see — preserve  it.  You  are  judge  ! 

My  innocence,  my  life,  rests  on  it ! 

Mortimer.  Devils ! 

Foil  me  at  my  own  game  ! — Fate  ! — ha,  ha,  ha! 

Sport,  Lucifer! — He  struck  me 

(Mortimer  faints  and  is  falling — AVilford  runs 
and  catches  him) 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


79 


SC.  III.] 

WiLFORD.  {in  centre)  I’ll  support  him. — 

Bead  I read ! read ! 

PiTZ.  What  is  this  My  mind  misgives  me  ! 

It  is  my  brother’s  hand  ! {reads)  This  paper  to  be 
destroyed  before  my  death  !”  What  can  this  mean  ? 

“ Narrative  of  my  murder  of ” Oh,  great  heav’nl 

“ If  by  some  chance  my  guilt  should  be  disclosed, 

‘‘  May  this  contribute  to  redeem  the  wreck 
“Of  my  lost  honour!” — I am  horror-struck! 
WiLFORD.  Plain,  plain  ! — stay  he  revives. 

Mortimer,  {reviving)  What  has  been — soft  I 

I have  been  wand’ring  with  the  damn’d,  sure. — 
Brother  I — 

And — aye — ’tis  Wilford!  Oh!  thought  flashes  on  me 
Like  lightning.  I am  brain- scorch’d.  Give  me  leave. 

I will  speak — Soon  I will a little  yet — 

Come  hither,  boy— wrong’d  boy  ! Oh,  Wilford,  Wil- 
ford ! {hursts  into  tears^  and  falls  on  Wilford’s  neck) 
WiLF.  Be  firm,  sir  ; pray  be  firm  ! my  heart  bleeds  for  you; 
Warms  for  you!  Oh!  all  your  former  charity 
To  your  poor  boy,  is  in  my  mind. — Still,  still, 

I see  my  benefactor ! 

Mortimer.  Well,  I will — 

I will  be  firm.  One  struggle,  and  ’tis  over. 

I have  most  foully  wrong’d  you  ! Ere  I die — 

And  I feel  death- struck — let  me  haste  to  make 
Atonement. — Brother,  note.  The  jewels, — 

Yes,  and  that  paper — heaven  and  accident 
Ordain’d  it  so  ! — were  placed — curse  on  my  flesh, 

To  tremble  thus  ! — were  placed  there  by  my  hand. 
PiTZ.  0,  mercy  on  me  ! 

Mortimer  More.  I fear’d  this  boy ; 

He  knew  my  secret ; and  I blacken’d  him. 

That  should  he  e’er  divulge  the  fatal  story. 

His  word  might  meet  no  credit.  Infamy 
Will  brand  my  mem’ry  for’t : Posterity 
Whose  breath  I made  my  god,  will  keep  my  shame 
Green  in  her  damning  record.  Oh  ! I had — 

I had  a heart  o’erflowing  with  good  thoughts 
For  all  mankind  ! One  fatal,  fatal  turn, 

Has  poison’d  all ! Where  is  my  honour,  now  ? 

To  die !; — To  have  my  ashes  trampled  on, 


80 


THE  IRON  CHEST. 


By  the  proud  foot  of  scorn ! Polluted ! Hell— 

Who  dares  to  mock  my  guilt?  Is’t  you-or  you?— 
^ck  me  that  grinning  fiend  ! Damnation  i ^ 

Who  spits  upon  my  grave?  I’ll  stab  again- 

^ ^ { f 11  \ 

J^nter  Helen,  l. 

Oh, 


-Gently, 


Oh,  heaven  ! my  Mortimer.  0,  raise  him. 
bpeak  to  me,  love.  He  cannot ! 

Mortimer.  Helen— ’Twas  I that kill 

io  speak,  hut  appears  unable: 
he  kisses  her  hand  and  dies,  c. ; she  faints  upon  the  bod  ’ 

^ ‘ .'^h.Pire& 

Curtatw^  ''wofacriD 

the  TroH 

Costut1t^0 — (time  op  CHARLES  THE  FIRST.) 

slashed 

VelloTannol7  w't  clashed  with 

y and  gold  lace,  buff  boots,  cane,  sword,  iron-grey  rinelet 

featherlniff* heaver  ifat^and^ed 

^O’ahlet  or  short  tunic,  and  trunks  trimmed 
with  black,  grey  tights  and  shoes,  round  cap.  tnmmed  , 

shoes^raft^®”"'^  trimmed  with  red,  red  tights  and  buff  j 

■.  ®o*'^  and  worn  short  tunic  and  trunks, 

■ inira^  2>res«  .•  Smart  red  doublet  and 

niks,  yellow  stockings  and  shoes,  ruff. 

’ERVANTS.— Liveries,  with  a badge  on  the  left  arm. 

' , “-leathern  jerkin  and  trunks,  grey  stockings  and  high 

i-es,  bald  crowned  wig,  slouch  hat.  6»  ^ 

\RMSTRONO.— Doublet  and  trunks,  breastplate,  black  tights 
)M0N“'^‘'Brown*'d^  RW*'  feathers,  sword,  dagger,  and  pistol.  ’ 

^ r iPh  Lnf  1 and  short  trunks,  fleshings  and  boots, 

I ^ T?®  *1**8“*®®  ®l®ak,  dagger,  pistols,  and  gun. 

hoBBBKs.— Dresses  of  vanous  colours  similar  to  the  above. 

Helen.— White  satin  dress,  ringlets. 
lac0'^7oi*,r®'“®L  '^®ly®f  body,  pink  petticoat  trimmed  with  cotton 
bIIbab!  pT^®*!  ®"g»>-foaf  hat,  and  red  cloak. 

rbara.— Plain  brown  menno  body  and  skirt,  straw  gipsey  hat. 


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A List  of  Theatrical  Tradesjien,  and  their  Addressed?. 

Edited  by  T.  H.  LACY. 

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GUIDE  TO  THE  STAGE  : A New  Edition,  with  many 
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LA0Y;S  FAIRY  BURLESQUES  FOR  HOME  PER- 
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LACY’S  DRAMATIC  RECITER,  contains  the  most 
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Lacy’s  Acting  Plays 8d. 


1149  Richard  11. 

1150  Black  Eyed  Sue,  Burl. 

1151  Cure  for  Fidgets 

1152  Mr.  Scrgfogins 

1153  Helen 

1151  100,000  Pounds 
1155  Nobody’s  Child 
VOLUME  78. 

1150  WeallHaveLittleFaults 

1157  Tell  with  a Vengeance 

1158  Mary  Turner 

1159  Lord  Darnley 

1160  Dandelion’s  Dodges 

1161  Belle  of  the  Barley  Mew 

1162  Jack  o’  the  Hedge 

1163  He’s  a Lunatic 

1164  Simon  Lee 

1165  Lucia  Lammermeor, Op. 

1166  Crown  Diamonds,  Op. 

1167  Mutiny  at  the  Nore 

1168  Affair  of  Honour 

1169  Two  Puddifoots 

1170  Kind  to  a Fault 

VOLUME  79. 

1171  Iflhad^lOOOa-year 

1172  Caesar  the  Watch  Dog 

1173  Inchcape  Bell 

1174  Siamese  Twins 

1175  Humbug 

1176  White  Fawn 

1177  Up  for  the  Cattle  Show 

1178  Caliph  of  Bagdad 

1179  Mischief  Making 

1180  Home  of  One’s  Own 

1181  Glass  of  Water 

1182  Timour  the  Tartar 

1183  Irishman  in  London 

1184  George  Barnwell 

1185  Who’s  to  Win  Him? 

VOLUME  80. 

1186  Maud’s  Peril 

1187  Very  Pleasant  Evening 

1188  Peep-Show  Man 

1189  One  too  Many  for  Him 

1190  Happiest  Day  my  Life 

1191  Pleasant  Dreams 

1192  X y Z 

1193  Volunteer  Review 

1194  Who’s  my  Husband  ? 

1195  Lost  in  London 

1196  Honour  before  Wealth 

1197  Silent  Protector 

1198  Field  of  Cloth  of  GcU 

1199  Special  Performances 

1200  Go  to  Putney 

VOLUME  81. 

1201  Under  the  Gaslight 
^202  Ireland  as  it  Was 

1203  Teddy  the  Tiler 

1204  Woman  of  World  [Com 

1205  Little  Annie’s  Birthday 


1206  Black  Sheep  Drama 

1207  Time  and  Tide 

1208  Time  and  the  Hour 

1209  Tom  Thrasher 

1210  Done  Brown 

1211  Ragpicker  of  Paris 

1212  Dinorah  under  Dilfs 

1213  Scamps  of  London 

1214  Master  Jones’ Birthday 

1215  Der  Freischutz,  Byron 

VOLUME  81. 

1216  Wife’s  Secret,  is. 

1217  Beautiful  for  Ever 

1218  Atchi 

1219  Stranger,  Burl. 

1220  Settling  Day,  Is. 

1221  Presumptive  Evidence 

1222  Chrononotonthokgos 

1223  Old  and  Young 

1224  Grace  Huntley 

1225  Wizard  of  the  Moor 

1226  Dead  Heart 

1227  Brown  an^  Brahmins 

1228  Irish  Emigrant 

1229  Philippe,  or  the  Secret 
Maarriage 

1230  Comfortable  Lodgings 

VOLUME  83. 

1231  Happy  Pair,  A 

1232  Rochester,  2 Acta 

1233  William  Tell,  3 Acts 

1234  Jack  Cade 

1235  Marie  Antoinette 

1236  Paper  Wings 

1237  Gertrude’s  Money  Box 

1238  Faust,  Is. 

1239  Cup  of  Tea,  A 

1240  Matteo  Falcone 

1241  Day’s  Fishing,  A 

1242  Blossm  ChurningGreen 

1243  Mariner’s  Compass 

1244  Glitter 

1245  Fettered 

VOLUME  84. 

1246  Not  Guilty 

1247  Winning  Hazard 

1248  Lion  at  Bay 

1249  Witch  of  Windermere 

1250  Paris 

1251  Fire  Raiser 

1252  Winning  a Wife 

1253  Lame  Excuse 

1254  Ladies  of  St.  Cyr 

1255  Bird  of  Paradise 

1256  Fair  Rosamond’s  Bower 

1257  Edendale 

1258  Test  of  Truth 

1259  Chops  of  the  Channel 

1260  Mrs.  Smith 

VOLUME  85. 

1261  Man  of  Tw(>  Live*  Is. 


Post  Free.  , " 

1262  Pedrillo  I 

1263  Old  Score,  An 

1264  Milky  Wfeite 

1265  Checkmate 

1266  Felon’s  Bond  ! 

1267  Broken  Sword 

1268  Hop-pickers  & G | 

1269  Loving  Cup 

1270  Home  Wreck 

1271  Spoiled  Child 

1272  Daddy  Gray 

1273  Serpent  on  the  1 

1274  Sea-gulls 

1275  Old  Gooseberry 

VOLUME  86.  I 

i 1276  Isoline  of  Bavari  * 

i 1277  Who  s Who? 

1278  Quaker  , 

1279  Wait  for  an  Ans\ . 

1280  Foscari  j 

1281  Somnambulist 

1282  First  Floor 

1283  Gnome  King 

1284  Joan  of  Arc  ^ 

1285  Ambrose  Gwinett 

1286  John  Overy 

1287  Throu|L  Fire  & 

1288  ShadcT  of  a Grin 

1289  TomkiM  the  Trov 

1290  Life  Chase 

VOLUME  87. 

1291  The  Princess 

1202  LucretiP  DorgiaLB^ 

1293  Blue  Devils 

1294  Beggar’s  Petitioi 

1295  Lord  Bateman 

1296  Maid  & Magpie  [Dr 

1297  Robber  of  the  Rbi 

1298  Won  at  Last 

1299  Popping  the  Que?  • 

1300  Lizzie  Lyle 

1301  Pedlar  Boy 

1302  LindaofChamor 

1303  Pyke  O’Callaghu 

1304  Clouds  and  Suns. 

1305  Terrible  Tinker 


